Matty Hazlett
by WillowDryad
Summary: 1870. Devastated by his father's murder, Nick goes alone to track down the killer. Jarrod goes after him, but how can he bring Nick home when he has disappeared without a trace?
1. Part One

**MATTY HAZLETT**

**Part One**

"Your father is dead."

The words came out cold and stark, as stark as the contrast between Mother's ash-pale face and the deep-black silk of her dress. The last of the mourners had left the house, and she had finally laid aside her crape-trimmed black bonnet and the long black veil that had seemed to overwhelm her, covering her face and reaching all the way to her feet.

"But," she said, "that does not mean that everything he worked for died with him. He built all of this, the ranch, the mines, the vineyards, the shipping businesses, the investments, everything he did, for you, his sons. Nicholas, the ranch is yours to run. Your father always meant for you to. You and he made it what it is, and he taught you everything you need to know. Now it's up to you to see it becomes what he envisioned."

Nick lowered his eyes to the floor, his black suit, like Jarrod's, was stiff and new, swiftly made for the unexpected bereavement. His black tie felt tight around his neck. How could he run the whole ranch by himself? How could he do any of it without Father?

"Jarrod," Mother continued, "you worked with your father on every aspect of our finances, the business interests, every legal matter, for the past several years. They're yours to manage now. He trusted your judgement and expected you to take what he had earned and make it prosper."

Jarrod nodded, his eyes all the bluer for the deep grief that was in them.

"I know you have both been used to having your father's guidance and support." Mother drew an unsteady breath. "So have I."

Jarrod took her arm, but she only patted his hand and stepped away from him, back straight, queenly head held high, eyes dry.

"Now we must depend upon each other," she said. "It is up to us to see that what your father built endures and grows the way he intended it to. He prepared you both all your lives for this. I know you will make him, and me, very proud."

She kissed Jarrod's cheek and then Nick's, and then she swept up the wide, gold-carpeted staircase and was gone.

Nick looked at his brother not knowing what he ought to do now. It was over. Father was buried, and it was over. They were supposed to carry on now, buying and selling, branding and roping and herding, as if nothing had happened.

Jarrod sat down in one of the chairs in front of the empty fireplace, his black gloves clutched in one hand. "I suppose she's gone up to check on Audra."

Nick nodded. "She was pretty upset by the time the funeral was over, poor kid."

"Maybe you and I ought to talk about all this." Jarrod glanced toward the stairs. "I don't want to bother them. Maybe we should go into the library."

Nick wrinkled his brow. Father's body had been in the library for the past three days. Mother and Silas had washed it and dressed it and laid it out in the casket Mr. Hanley had made especially for him. Jarrod and Nick and four of Father's closest friends had carried that casket from the house to the hearse and then walked behind the black-plumed horses out to the place where Mr. McColl and some of the men had dug the grave, the place where Father had been killed. Over a thousand people had gathered there, many of them weeping, many of them afraid, for if the Coastal & Western Railroad had been bold enough to send someone to murder the great Tom Barkley there on his own land, what else might they do?

When they had come back from the grave to receive the condolences of family and close friends, they saw that Silas had thrown wide the library doors to let in the fresh spring breeze and let out the odor of lilies and death.

"I don't want to go in there," Nick murmured.

"Oh," Jarrod said in the soft, half-distracted voice he'd used since they'd first brought Father home. "No. Not the library."

Nick sat on the settee across from him and put his head in his hands. He didn't even know how to begin. What to do. What to say. The whole world had gone mad three days ago, and he didn't know how it worked anymore.

The morning of that day, the three of them, Nick, Jarrod and Father, had been digging postholes for a new fence line. It had been a nice day, a cool, pleasant day in early spring, but by noon it had grown hot, and they had quickly gone through all the water in their canteens and all the nails they had brought with them.

Father had laughed and said he would go fetch nails and go to the creek for water. "Now that I'm finally getting a full day's work out of the two of you, I don't want to give either of you an excuse to stop."

Then he had given them that lopsided grin of his, and there was humor in his sky-blue eyes. Nick and Jarrod had both laughed, too. If there was one thing their father had taught them is was that the owner of a place had to be the hardest worker on it. "Because," he always said, "nobody else'll love it like you do or care as much what happens to it." His sons had both taken that to heart and knew their father saw and appreciated it.

"Put 'em in straight now," Father said once he'd mounted his horse, and then he was gone.

"Straight now," Nick jibed as he filled in the hole while Jarrod held the post steady.

"Just don't take all day." Jarrod blinked a trickle of sweat out of his eye, and gripped the post more firmly in his gloved hands. "What do you think we've got? Another ten miles of this?"

Nick laughed. "Give or take nine-and-a-half." He squinted at the sun straight over their heads. "You know, maybe after we're done here, we could see about going to look at those horses Strittmatter is selling down in Barstow. Jake Cassidy was telling me they were about as fine a bunch of palominos as he'd seen. Do you think Father'd let us?"

Jarrod shrugged and carried a fence post to the next empty hole. "Might. Or he might say now's not the time to be gone that long. Not with all there is to do around the place."

"There's always a lot to do around the place. Stock like that doesn't come up every day."

"Don't know what to tell you, Brother Nick, except you can ask him about it. For now, why don't you get this post set so we'll be finished here at least by suppertime."

They worked in companionable silence for a while longer until the crack of a gunshot made them both jump.

"Where was that?" Nick said, reaching for the rifle on his saddle.

Jarrod shook his head, scanning the hills. "Why isn't Father back yet? It shouldn't have taken him this long to get nails and fill the canteens. Which way do you think he went first?"

"I don't know. I'll head toward the house. You go over to the creek."

Nick mounted his horse and urged him into a fast trot. It didn't have to mean anything, he told himself, fighting down the dread that had settled into the pit of his stomach. Somebody hunting maybe. It could be that.

"Come on, Coco," he muttered, and the horse increased his speed, kicking up dust.

Nick squinted into that dust when he realized there was someone behind him. A stranger. He pulled up.

"Hey," the man said, coming up to him. "I heard a shot. Was that you?"

He was riding a sleek little black-and-white pinto pony. The man himself was tall and dark, maybe only a couple of years older than Nick was.

"My brother and I were trying to figure out where it came from," Nick said. "Could you tell?"

The stranger shook his head. "Hard to say with those hills over there. I thought it came from up ahead of us. Your direction."

"I don't know. What are you doing out this way? Headed to the ranch?"

"The ranch?"

"The Barkley place. Nothing much out this way besides it."

"Oh." The man frowned and looked around. "I was headed to Stockton. Got a job waiting for me. Guess I missed a turn or something."

"Look, I gotta get going. If somebody's hurt—" Nick nodded curtly back the way they both had come. "You go back about three-quarters of a mile. Take the cutoff past the grove. It'll get you into Stockton."

The stranger touched the brim of his black hat. "Obliged. I hope everything's all right."

"Yeah."

Nick didn't wait to watch the man ride off. He had to find Father. He'd gone less than a quarter of a mile farther when he heard Jarrod calling to him. He wheeled and saw his brother galloping his way. Jarrod was leading Father's horse.

Nick spurred Coco over to his side. "Where'd you find him?"

"Heading back to the ranch. I went over to the creek, but from what I could tell, Father had filled the canteens and gone. I thought maybe he'd been coming this way. To pick up the nails. But I haven't seen any sign of him. We'd better start searching the back way."

"Right," Nick said. "We'll take that trail that leads off in the woods and see if we can find him."

"Yeah. Could be that shot spooked old Malachite here and left him afoot."

Their eyes met. Clearly neither of them believed it.

They rode for a while in silence, scanning the brush and the trees around them, looking for any kind of sign, but there was nothing. Nothing until they came out of the woods upon a quiet grove of trees. They both stopped where they were. About ten yards away lay their father. He was face down in the dirt, and the back of his leather vest was soaked with blood. They both dropped their reins and ran to him.

"Father!" Jarrod reached him first and turned him over, frantically pressing one hand to his wrist and then to his throat and then to his chest. Then he let the air seep out of his lungs. "Father."

The sky-blue eyes were clouded now, open and unseeing, and Jarrod gently closed them. Then he gravely kissed his father's bearded cheek.

Nick shoved him away with a cry, hardly able to see for the tears that pooled in his eyes. "Don't do that!"

"Nick—"

"I said don't!" He shielded their father in his arms, holding him away from Jarrod. "Don't treat him like he's dead."

"He _is_ dead, Nick. He's dead."

Jarrod put one arm around his shoulders, but Nick shrugged him off.

"Just go get the doctor. Go on. You have to hurry. While there's still time."

"Nick," Jarrod said again, and this time he put both arms around him, around him and their father, holding tight as his tears fell into Nick's hair.

"Jarrod," Nick begged, pressing his wet cheek against their father's cold one. "You have to— He can't— Jarrod. Jarrod, please."

Sobs tore at his chest and choked in his throat, and Jarrod simply held him there until neither of them could cry anymore. Finally, Jarrod pushed himself to his feet and swiped his sleeve over his wet face.

"We have to take him home, Nick. Come on now."

Nick squeezed his eyes shut, holding tight for just a moment more. Then he pressed his lips to the side of Father's head and stood up. Jarrod brought Malachite over to where they were.

"Help me get him across his saddle."

Nick glared at him. "We're not packing him out that way like he was no more than a piece of meat."

"We can't do it any other way."

"I'll put him in the saddle in front of me."

"Nick, you can't possibly—"

"Just help me get him up there. I can hold him after that."

Jarrod ran one shaky hand through his black hair and then he finally nodded.

Somehow, between the two of them, they got Father's body up into Coco's saddle. Jarrod held it steady while Nick got up behind.

"All right. You can let go."

Jarrod stepped back, watching while Nick urged Coco forward. But within two steps, Father's body started slipping. Nick struggled to hold it in the saddle while his horse shuffled sideways, uncertain what he was supposed to do with this strange burden. Jarrod went back to them, steadying Coco with one hand to his bridle and using his other to keep his father's body where it was.

"Nick, you can't do it."

"I can," Nick insisted desperately. "I just need to get set."

Jarrod stood as he was, and Nick shifted the body back against himself a little more than it had been before.

"All right."

Jarrod let go.

"Get up, Coco."

They didn't make it far enough to get out of the grove.

"Come on, Nick," Jarrod said gently. "We have to get him home."

Nick wrapped his arms more tightly around his father's body and leaned his face against the broad, blood-soaked back, sobbing again. "I'm gonna kill him, the man who did this. I swear to God, I'm gonna kill him."

Without a word, Jarrod brought Malachite over to Coco's side, and between him and Nick, they managed to lay the body over the empty saddle and tie it securely. Then, in silent agreement, they led the horse home on foot. It didn't seem right to ride.

Even sitting there in the parlor three days later, Nick could still hear his mother's shrill cries when they reached the front of the house. _"Tom! Tom! No!"_

"I guess it's going to hard to keep things going without Father," Jarrod said, startling Nick out of his grim memories. "But Mother's right. Father spent his whole life building up the ranch and the businesses. We can't let it all fall apart now that he's gone." Jarrod came over to sit on the settee beside him and put one arm around his shoulders. "And she was right when she said he's been preparing us for this all of our lives. I know it's not easy to even imagine it right now." Jarrod managed a ghost of a smile. "But we can do this. We can do this together."

Nick looked up at him, knowing the sullen, angry expression that had been on his face since Father was killed was there now. "I can't."

"Nick—"

"I won't. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend like nothing happened while that—" He bit back a word Mother wouldn't have wanted him to use. "—that yellow back-shooter gets off scot free."

"You have to let the law—"

Nick shrugged out from under Jarrod's arm and leapt to his feet. "The law can't do anything about him!"

"Shh." Jarrod's eyes flashed and he glanced again toward the stairs.

Nick pressed his lips together. No use upsetting Mother or Audra at this point. "The sheriff says he's pretty sure the man's gone across the state line. Can't he or anybody else do anything about him unless he comes back into California, and I expect the Coastal & Western will see he has plenty of money to go wherever he likes from now on."

"Probably true," Jarrod said gravely. "And nothing you do will change anything now. Unless you want Mother to have to bury a son, too."

Nick set his jaw, knowing nothing else would cool the burning in his blood. "I'm the one who saw the man and was too big a fool to kill him when I had my chance. And I'm the one who's gonna kill him now."


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

Dinner that evening was quiet. Strained. Nick kept his eyes on his plate, knowing Mother would not approve of the fury that simmered just under his skin. She was still wearing black, of course, and would do for at least a year. He and Jarrod still wore their black suits. Even their white shirts were trimmed in black and had black buttons. Audra, being only twelve, wore a white dress with black ribbons. The three of them would wear mourning for their father as long as their mother did. They'd agreed on that much.

"Shall I bring in the coffee now, ma'am?" Silas asked quietly.

His customary white coat had been exchanged for another one, this one with black piping, and he wore a black armband. His brown face seemed a little more lined now, his hair a little whiter, his dark eyes a little more weary, but as always he served with perfect correctness, perfect graciousness.

"Yes, please," Mother said. "We'll have it in the parlor."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And some tea for Miss Audra."

"Yes, ma'am."

Audra looked at her mother with tear-filled blue eyes. "I don't want any tea."

She had sat through dinner, ramrod straight in her chair, barely picking at her food, speaking only when spoken to. Now there was ragged emotion in her voice.

Mother gave her a serene nod. "Silas, Miss Audra will _not_ be having tea."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't want tea or dinner or anything else," Audra sobbed. "I want Daddy."

"Honey," Jarrod murmured, going to her and taking her into his arms.

Nick threw down his napkin, and Mother raised one eyebrow.

With a huff, Nick looked down at his plate again. Why hadn't he killed that stranger there on the road when he'd had his chance? There hadn't been anyone else. He and Jarrod and every hand on the ranch had searched the whole area around where Father had been killed. They had found nothing that shouldn't have been there. Nothing but the tracks of that one little pinto pony.

That man couldn't have been much older than Nick was. Twenty-three maybe. Twenty-four at most. Who'd have thought anyone could be a cold-blooded killer at so young an age. Murderers had to start somewhere, he guessed. Well, he could start somewhere, too.

He lifted his chin. "I'm going after him."

Jarrod's eyes flashed at him over Audra's head. "Nick, we already talked about this. The law will take care of it."

"The law won't do anything." There was the screech of wood on wood as Nick shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "The railroad owns the law, and we both know it."

"We put out a reward the day Father was killed." Jarrod kissed the top of Audra's golden head, soothing her as she clung more tightly to him. "There are wanted posters everywhere. With that much money at stake, somebody will bring him in."

"Somebody?" Nick spat. "Was he _somebody's_ father or was he ours?"

Audra began to sob again.

"That's enough, both of you." Mother looked Nick and Jarrod and then pointedly at Audra. "This is hardly the time or place for this discussion. Audra, darling, come here."

Mother stood up, and Audra flew into her arms. They were of a height now, but she nestled her head under Mother's chin. Mother murmured something soothing into her ear, and Audra nodded, smiling faintly.

"All right, then," Mother said. "You go on up. I'll be there in just a few minutes."

Audra sniffled, daintily dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and then walked out of the dining room.

Mother turned flashing eyes on her second son. "Nicholas, I absolutely forbid you to go after that man on your own."

"I have to go!"

"No, you're wrong about that," Mother said. "You don't have to go get yourself killed. You don't have to throw your life away to prove how much you loved your father. You don't have to break my heart any more than it's already been broken."

She was crying now.

"Mother."

He put his arms around her, holding her close, and then he felt another pair of arms, arms still with a child's slenderness, go around him from behind.

"Don't go, Nick," Audra begged. "Please don't go and get killed, too."

He pulled her to his side, still with his arm around Mother. He wanted to tell them both that there was nothing else he could do. He wanted to promise them he'd come back, that nothing bad would happen to him, but the words wouldn't come out.

Mother turned his face to her, fixing her gray eyes on his. "Promise me, Nick. Promise you won't go."

He pressed his trembling lips together and said nothing.

She looked pleadingly at Jarrod.

"Mother, why don't you and Audra go now," Jarrod said mildly. "Nick and I have a few things to discuss."

Mother nodded. Then she cupped Nick's cheek in her hand, still with pleading in her eyes. After a moment, she took Audra upstairs.

"What in the name of heaven are you thinking?" Jarrod demanded once they were gone. "Can't you see what you're doing to them?"

"All I can see is you're doing nothing."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm no gunslinger, and neither are you."

"We're both fair enough hands with a gun." Nick began to pace. "I don't know why one of us shouldn't bring him in. And I don't know why it shouldn't be me. I'm the one who saw him. I'd recognize him in a heartbeat."

"And be dead the next."

Nick grit his teeth. He knew his brother was no coward. Why couldn't he see this was something that had to be done?

"Nick, Mother asked you for a promise. I think you should give it to her."

"Didn't you love Father?" Nick demanded.

"Don't you love Mother?"

Jarrod said the words quietly and so reasonably that Nick wanted to punch him right then and there. How was he supposed to argue with him when he didn't fight fair?

Nick looked down at his polished black boots. "I, uh, I'm going to, uh, ride out and check on that fence line we were working on. I guess nobody's seen to it since . . . uh, since we were there last."

"The fence line? It'll be dark in half an hour."

"That's all right. I won't be long."

Jarrod looked at him warily. "Maybe I ought to go with you."

"No."

"Nick—"

"No. Look, Jarrod, I'm not going anywhere but out to the fence line. I swear, all right? I just need a little time. By myself."

"All right," Jarrod said at last.

Nick managed at halfway smile. "You tell Mother I'll be back in awhile."

"We'll be waiting for you."

"Yeah," Nick said, and he knew they would be.

OOOOO

Nick crept into the kitchen before dawn the next morning. He wasn't wearing mourning anymore, just his regular trail clothes. It might have been any other day when he was heading out to work with Father, except for the black armband and the wad of bills he'd taken from Father's desk. He'd left a note in the money's place.

Now all he needed was some food for the trail and he'd be gone. He packed up the usual things, beans and bacon and one of the fresh loaves of bread Silas had made yesterday. Then, with a grim smile, he wrapped up a big hunk of the cherry pie from the icebox. Silas had just about said he'd made it especially for him anyway.

"Mr. Nick."

Nick winced and turned to see Silas standing in the kitchen door, his robe clutched around him.

"Uh, good morning. I was just—"

"Mr. Nick, I knew I should ought to've locked up that pie. Where do you think you're going to this early in the day?"

Nick dropped his eyes. Silas could always see through the slightest deception. He was worse than Mother that way. "Well, there are some horses I'd like to look at down south. I didn't want to wake up the house."

Silas was already fussing over the food he had packed, clicking his tongue as he pulled everything out and then started putting it back in. "Who taught you to pack things this way? That pie gonna be no more than mush by the time you ready to eat it. Now here."

Nick bit his lip, watching as the capable hands rearranged his supplies so they'd keep better and take up less room. Last of all, Silas put the pie into a tin and secured the lid over it.

Silas handed the bag to him at last, his old eyes searching Nick's. "Are you sure you ought to be going all that way yourself, Mr. Nick? Maybe them horses can wait for somebody else to see to 'em. Or maybe you and Mr. Jarrod—"

"No, Jarrod's got work to do. Don't you worry now, I'll be back before long."

"Are you sure, Mr. Nick?" Silas asked, and Nick knew he'd have to go before he lost his nerve.

"Gotta go," he said, smiling as he patted the old man's thin shoulder. "You tell Mother not to worry. I'll be back."

"Lord keep you, Mr. Nick," Silas said, and he stood in the door watching until Nick couldn't see the house anymore.

OOOOO

_I want a look at those palominos of Strittmatter's down in Barstow, and now's a good a time as any. McColl will see to things while I'm gone. Took some cash in case I decide to buy. Will be back. Nick._

Jarrod handed the note to Mother.

"Do you think that's where he really went?" she asked once she had read it.

"I suppose so. It wouldn't be like him to lie to you. Still, he didn't take Coco with him. That worries me."

"It's a long way to Barstow," Mother said. "Maybe he thought Coco deserved a rest."

"Maybe. And maybe I ought to go try to catch up to him. Silas said he left only a little while ago."

Mother gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "Let him go, Jarrod. He came back last night as he said he would. If he said he's going to Barstow, then I'm sure that's where he's going. Give him a little time alone. He'll come back."

Jarrod read the note over again and wished he could be so sure.

OOOOO

Nick urged his horse into a trot. The man had nearly four days on him now. It wasn't going to be easy to catch up, especially since he had headed for the state line the minute he'd shot Father. The only thing Nick could hope was to catch him on the other side of that line, once he'd slowed down and felt safe.

The sheriff had told them he'd crossed into Nevada at Lake Talley. They expected he'd head either to Reno or Carson City to enjoy the profits of his labor. Carson City was a little closer, so Nick headed there first. His description of the man and the horse paid off at the sheriff's office. The man was Jeb Clinton. He'd been through town spending money and throwing his weight around until the sheriff let him know he ought to be moving on. That had been just the morning before Nick's arrival.

The sheriff gave Nick a lecture about taking the law into his own hands, about Clinton not being wanted for anything in _this_ state, and about kidnapping and murder still being illegal. Nick thanked him for his advice and promptly ignored it. The man was headed east. So was Nick.

OOOOO

Nick was close. He could feel it. People noticed that little pinto, and he'd run into more than a few of them who remember seeing it heading east and not very long ago. He'd passed a little place called Fryestown and almost stopped there for the night, but something told him to keep on just a little longer. When he spotted a campfire in the trees up ahead, he was glad he had.

He left his horse a little ways back up the road and, gun drawn and cocked, crept up to the fire. There was the pinto. Clinton was heating up a skillet full of beans. His gun was on a rock beside him in easy reach of his hand, and he was keeping a wary eye on the territory around him. Nick took a few noiseless steps closer, concealing himself behind a broad-trunked tree.

"I've got this gun pointed straight at your head, Clinton."

The gunman dropped the skillet, but he made no other move.

"You just throw that pistol over into the bushes there," Nick told him. "Go on."

Clinton obeyed.

"Now drop the gun belt and put up your hands."

Clinton did that, too.

Nick stepped out from behind the tree. "My name's Barkley."

Clinton's eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, that Barkley. We met the other day over near my ranch, if you remember. I'd have come to visit sooner, but I had a funeral to go to."

The gunman grinned appreciatively. "Well, go on and shoot. Can't nobody stop you now."

"Oh, no. I'm no murderer." Nick knew now that he wasn't. Couldn't ever be. "You're going back to Stockton. Now get up."

Again, Clinton obliged him.

"Now come this way, and no quick moves."

Clinton took one step and then dove for his gun. Nick's bullet caught him in the shoulder, but he managed to scramble behind the bushes. Nick ducked behind the tree again, hearing the ping and thud of two shots that took off the bark beside his head.

"Go on and ride out, boy," Clinton growled. "I killed your old man, and I was well paid for it. Got no reason to kill you unless you make me."

Nick let Clinton have a glimpse of him as he fired over the bushes and got the return fire he'd hoped for. That was three. He waited a moment and then fired again, but the report sounded too loud. Was that four now? Hard to say.

His heart trying to fight its way out of his chest, he stood there, waiting. "You're going to need a doctor, Clinton. Throw away the gun and come out."

His only answer was another shot. Five. He thought.

Nick fired once more, and Clinton obliged him with another. That was six. Maybe.

"I'm coming to get you, Clinton. You're through. You're out of bullets and your gun belt is closer to me than you."

Clinton didn't make a move.

Nick took a quick look around the tree. There was a distinct click and then nothing. Definitely six.

He reloaded and then stepped out into the light, still with his gun pointed toward the bushes. "Come on out. Let's go."

"I'm coming," Clinton said. "Don't shoot."

He stood up, his left hand clutching his bloodied shoulder, his gun still held in his right.

"Throw it away," Nick told him as he stumbled closer.

Clinton looked at the gun as if he didn't remember he still had it, then in a flash he fired, catching Nick low in the side. Nick fell against him, grabbing for the gun. Clinton pulled the trigger once, twice more, but now there really were no more bullets. With a low growl, he clubbed Nick in the side of the head with his empty gun, and everything went black.


	3. Part Three

**Part Three**

He woke to the heat of the noonday sun. Thirst. Terrible thirst. Blinding pain. He tried to lift his hand to shield his eyes from the light, but at the slight movement, a low cry seared his parched throat. He dropped his head back to the hard ground, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing himself not to panic. One thing at a time. He knew he was alive. That was a start.

He tried to swallow, but there was nothing but cotton in his mouth. He had to get up, had to find water somewhere. He opened his eyes just a crack, keeping them turned from the sun, and looked down his own body, at the tan shirt and black vest, long, black-clad legs, black boots. There was a black band around his arm, too. So much black. The shirt was stained on one side, stained bad. He moved one hand, slowly this time, until he touched that stain and brought his hand back wet and red.

Hurt. He was hurt. The pain rushed up on him then, worse than before, and he thought he'd be sick. He wiped the blood from his fingers onto the shirt and then reached up to touch the side of his head that was pounding so fiercely. Again that red wetness. Hurt bad.

He lay there a while longer, steeling himself, gathering strength, and then he managed to turn onto his side, the side that wasn't stained. Just that made the blackness rise up before his eyes and the sudden sweat pour from his body. His breath came hard once more. His head dropped against his shoulder, and he had to stop again. One thing at a time.

Water. Something to stop the bleeding. Someway to get . . . where? He'd think about that part later. He couldn't stay here in the open, he was sure of that much. However he'd gotten hurt, he wasn't doing himself any favors lying here in the middle of nowhere.

After a while, he managed to turn onto his stomach or, actually, onto his hip. He didn't want to risk laying on the place where he was bleeding. Somehow he pulled his legs up and got to his hands and knees. Now what? Water. There had to be water somewhere. He could see a burned-out fire and what was left of a camp. His camp? Maybe. There was a skillet full of old beans and a swarm of ants. A canteen? Thank God, there was a canteen laying there on a rock. He forced himself to crawl to it, stopping and starting a dozen times or more before he reached it and dragged it close.

His hands shook and his fingers fumbled, but he got it open and then laid his head against the side of the rock so if he tipped the canteen just enough, the water would pour into his mouth. It spilled on his face and down his neck, but it was cool bliss on his lips and in his throat. He drank and drank and drank, and then he was sick, his stomach convulsing until there was no water left in him, only the sour, acid taste in his mouth and the fierce burning in his side.

He curled in on himself, sobbing with the pain, and then he set his teeth and forced himself up again, up on his hands and knees. What did he have? If this was his camp, he must have some kind of pack. A horse. With his eyes screwed shut, he slid his hand down his side, past the burning to his hip. He had a gun belt, but the holster was empty. The gun?

He took three slow breaths and then opened his eyes just a slit. There was a glint of metal just out of his reach, over near some bushes, and he pushed himself in that direction. The iron was almost too heavy for him, but he managed to get it into the holster. Good. He had a gun. Always good to have one just in case. But the horse?

The horse was standing a few feet in back of him, packed and saddled, reins dragging the ground. He was angry now. It wasn't right to leave an animal like that saddled and not where it could get to grass and water. His horse, he supposed. Maybe he'd been hurt before he'd had a chance to see to it. Still, wasn't right.

Somehow, he crawled toward the animal and got hold of the reins. It took what felt like agonizing hours for him to pull himself up, using first the stirrup and then the saddle itself and then the pommel. Finally, he was astride the saddle and not over it. Nobody was packing him out of here like a piece of meat.

Again he had to stop, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the blackness before his eyes to clear. Then he wrapped the reins around his wrist and, hunching over and clinging to the pommel, he kicked his feet. The horse moved forward at a walk. He'd let it find the way.

**OOOOO**

Mercer Hazlett drove his wagon toward home. Toward the ranch, at least. It still didn't feel like home. Even with all their things laid out the way they'd been in the old place, even with Alma's lace curtains in the windows, it didn't yet seem like home. Well, a month in a new place was never going to be the same as a whole lifetime in the old one. His children hadn't been born in the sunny big bedroom of the new place. There weren't graves in the grove behind it that held a whole world of love and meaning in their dark depths. Friends and neighbors and family didn't surround them here. But the new place was fresh and clean and there were new neighbors who would soon grow into friends. Maybe he and Alma had needed that more than the weight of memories they both carried.

He rounded the curve that brought the ranch into view and pulled up short. A horse was standing in the middle of the road, its rider huddled in the dust at its feet. Mercer leapt down from the wagon and went to the man.

"Awful young," he murmured when he turned the slack face up, and he shook his head.

He was almost surprised when he felt the pulse still beating in the rider's sweat-and-dirt-grimed throat. He was bleeding from a blow to the side of his head and, worse, from a bullet in his side. Mercer reached into his pocket and took out the clean handkerchief Alma sent him out with every day and packed it as best he could into the wound. He needed something to tie around the man to keep that handkerchief in place, but he decided it wouldn't be much worse to just put him in the back of the wagon next to the feed sacks and take him on home. It wasn't far now, and it was better than trying to fix him up right here in the road.

He unwrapped the horse's reins from the rider's bruised wrist and then tied the animal to the back of the wagon. The next part was harder, but somehow he managed to gather the man into his arms and put him in the wagon. He was tall and long limbed, but he was young yet, lean and rangy, and Mercer didn't have much trouble with him.

"Alma!" he called when he pulled up to the house. "Alma!"

She came to the door, a dishtowel and a wet plate in hand.

"What is it? Oh!" She set the towel and the plate on the rocker near the door and hurried to the wagon. "Oh, Mercer, the poor boy. What happened to him?"

"Shot, as best I can tell. Clubbed in the head, too, it looks like. You'd better get that back bed ready."

She hurried into the house. Mercer was swiftly after her, and a moment later the rider was sprawled in the bed, bleeding onto the heavy tarp Alma had thrown over it.

"Where'd you find him?" she asked as she pulled open his shirt to expose the welling wound on his right side. "Get me those bandages out of the cupboard. Quick."

Mercer did as she asked, and between the two of them, they got the man bandaged. As they were stripping off the blood-soaked clothes, Mercer told his wife about finding the rider in the road not far from the house. The tale didn't take long. He knew very little more than that.

He fetched the hot water Alma asked for from the stove and brought her fresh towels and soap. Soon the man was clean and bundled into the blankets, looking no more than asleep except for the bandage, neat and white, against his damp black hair.

"Who do you think he is?" Alma asked, looking on him with pity in her dark eyes. "He's hardly more than a boy."

"Grown enough to carry a gun and use it, too," Mercer told her, examining the weapon they had unstrapped from the rider's slim hips. "This one's been fired and not too long ago."

That only added worry to the pity in his wife's expression. "Does he have any papers on him that would say who he is? Somebody's got to be worried over him."

Mercer searched the pile of torn, sodden clothing they'd thrown to the floor. All he came up with was a black armband and a wad of bills, more money than he'd seen in one place in all of his life.

"That money doesn't mean anything," Alma insisted. "Nothing says that money's not rightly his. Those clothes, they're not fancy, but they're custom made. Not just store bought."

"Maybe so," Mercer said tightly, unconvinced. "But maybe, too, we ought to let the sheriff sort this out."

"Now, Mercer, don't be hasty here." Alma was wiping the rider's face with cool water, patting his cheek as if he'd been one of their own boys. "You don't know he's done any wrong."

"He wore his gun low," Mercer said. "Like a gunman."

"Look at his hands," Alma said, and she drew one from under the covers, turning it palm up, limp and still. It wasn't the smooth hand of a gunfighter, but the rough, calloused one of a farmer or rancher, a hand used to long hours of hard labor.

Mercer frowned. "Well, somebody gunned him. Shouldn't the sheriff know about that?"

Alma pressed the hand she held to her heart, shielding it from him. "What if he was one of our boys? Wouldn't you want somebody taking care of him? Wouldn't you want him to have a chance to tell his side of it once he was strong enough? Wouldn't you want him lying safe in a bed and not on a bunk in the jailhouse or jostled on the road to town and bleeding out?"

"Maybe so, but Alma—"

"We have to look after him until he can tell us what happened. Then we'll best know what to do."

"Then I'd ought to get the doctor."

"No." She looked toward the door as though she feared someone was already coming for the man. "I'll tend him. Maybe it's not so bad as it looks quite yet. If we can get the bullet out and stop him bleeding, he might do all right. If the doctor comes, he'll know he's been shot. It'll be his duty to tell the sheriff there's been trouble."

As much as she insisted the man was not on the wrong side of the law, he could see in her eyes that she was no more than half sure. Maybe it was best anyway. The man wasn't like to make it, doctor or no.

Mercer stowed the armband, the gun belt and the money in the old chest at the foot of the bed. Then he and his wife dug the bullet out of the rider's side. The man never stirred the whole grueling while, even when they fished in the wound with the long kitchen knife and then one of Alma's knitting needles. Not even, once the bullet was sitting red and slick on the dresser, when they flushed out the hole with the whisky Mercer kept in his desk drawer.

Mercer heated one of Alma's needles on the stove, one of the new ones she was so fond of, and then used his pliers to bend it into a curve. Once it was cool, she used it and the fine silk thread she'd sent to Boston for, to sew the wound closed. He had to admit it was a fine job even if he wasn't sure how much good it would do.

He was dozing in the chair in the corner when he heard his wife's soft voice. He wasn't sure how many hours later it was.

"Shh, now." She was leaning over the man in the bed as he weakly stirred. "Shh. There's no need to get up. You just lie still."

"Where am I?" the rider breathed, and there was fear alongside the pain in his hazel eyes.

"You're at our ranch," she told him, taking the hand that reached out to her. "Don't you remember, honey?"

He shook his head, looking around distractedly. The room was all shadow outside the circle of low light from the lamp on the dresser.

"How do you feel?" she asked gently.

"I don't know. I don't know. Where am I?"

"Shh. Tell me your name. We'll start with that."

"Don't— don't know." His voice was rising in panic. "What's my name? What happened to me?"

Alma looked at Mercer, worried, and then she smoothed the rider's hair and shushed him.

The man flinched and sank back as Mercer came into the light, and he gripped Alma's hand the tighter, his breath coming hard and fast. "Who are you?"

"Easy, easy." Mercer soothed. "Go to sleep, son. You're safe here."

"Nobody's going to hurt you, honey," Alma said.

The rider was trembling, looking from one of them to the other. Then his eyes fluttered closed and he was still again.

"Poor, scared boy, he doesn't even know his name." Alma leaned over and kissed his forehead, tears in her eyes. "He's bad, Mercer. So bad. We have to help him."

"We'll try our best for him, I promise, but there may not be much we can do." He knelt down beside her chair and looked up earnestly into her face. "He may not be with us long, darlin'. Don't break your heart over what can't be helped."

**OOOOO**

**MR JARROD BARKLEY**

**BARKLEY RANCH **

**STOCKTON, CAL**

**HAVE NOT AT ANY TIME BEEN CONTACTED BY NICK BARKLEY REGARDING STOCK PURCHASE**

**REGRET HAVING NO INFORMATION HIS WHEREABOUTS**

**STERLING STRITTMATTER**

**DOUBLE S RANCH**

**BARSTOW, CAL**

When there had been no word from Nick after nearly two weeks, Jarrod had sent a wire to Barstow. He handed Mother the grim reply.

Her hand shook as she handed it back to him. "He lied to us."

"Not quite," Jarrod admitted. "He said he wanted to look at those horses, not that he was actually going there."

"He lied!" Mother snapped. "He knew exactly what we would think when he wrote that note. Oh, Jarrod."

She pressed herself into his arms, clinging to him as she wept, and he held her tight. He'd known. He'd known all this time that Nick was in trouble. He had pushed the feeling aside, knowing how much Mother and Audra needed him, thinking Nick would work through his pain and anger and come back home before long. How wrong he'd been. How foolish.

When he felt her calming, he turned her face up to him and gently kissed her. "I'll find him, Mother. I'll bring him back home wherever he is."

He knew Clinton had crossed into Nevada at Lake Talley. He'd start there.


	4. Part Four

**Part Four**

Jarrod kicked the remains of the campfire. There wasn't much left of it besides a few burnt rocks and an old skillet filled with stagnant rainwater. He'd waited too long now. There wasn't much of a trail left to follow. He couldn't even be sure Nick had been here, but someone had.

He traced one finger over the place where two bullets had torn the bark off of a tree. There were dark stains on the ground and on the rocks nearby. Maybe blood. Hard to tell at this point. Still, he knew Nick had come up this way. Too many people along the road from Carson City had remembered him asking about a man on a black-and-white pinto. All of them said he was headed northeast.

Jarrod searched around in the brush and found a wadded up piece of checked cloth. From a shirt, he imagined, though the fabric was too cheap and worn to have been Nick's. It was also stained. It looked like someone had torn a strip from it for a bandage. Had Nick or Clinton been the one who needed it? Had either of them even been here?

He was about to get back on his horse and try the next town when he noticed something dark tangled up in the twigs and leaves of the bush near the fire. It looked like a wadded up piece of black cloth. A vest or . . .

A hat.

Jarrod pulled it back into some semblance of its usual shape, but he'd already recognized it. Father had given it to Nick, had it made especially for him in San Francisco a couple of years ago. It was the only one Nick wore when they were out working the ranch. He'd been so proud—

"Nick," Jarrod muttered, stuffing the hat into his saddlebag. "Why couldn't you have stayed home and let me see to this my way?"

He returned to what was left of the hoof prints. There had been two horses, he was sure of that. There was a dark patch near where one of them had stood. It seemed likely that someone had struggled to get up into the saddle before he rode away. Both sets of prints went toward the road, one more directly than the other, then both were lost under all the tracks that had been made by the regular traffic along the road since Nick had been here.

Jarrod squinted into the low sunlight. If Nick was hurt, maybe he'd have headed back to the little place he'd just been through, Daleyville or Daleytown or whatever it was called, to find a doctor. Or he might well just be pigheaded enough to keep going northeast after Clinton anyway.

Jarrod went northeast.

OOOOO

Mercer Hazlett brought his wife the pitcher of fresh water she'd asked him for.

"You're going to have to sleep some, darlin'," he told her as she took it from him. "You haven't slept since I brought him in yesterday. You won't be able to tend him if you make yourself sick."

She looked up at him with those doe-brown eyes he'd never been able to resist even after nearly twenty-five years of marriage. "I can't just leave him, Mercer. Not after—"

She caught a shaky breath and poured some of the water into the basin that was there on the dresser beside her. Then she wrung out the cloth she had crumpled in her hand and again started bathing the face of the boy in the bed.

Mercer shook his head. Now he was doing it, calling that grown man a boy. Well, he was awful young yet, and lying there still and helpless he didn't look so very grown after all. But it didn't matter much what they called him at this point, since he wasn't ever likely to know it. And if something happened to him, Mercer wasn't sure if his Alma would be able to bear it.

"Maybe you'd ought to let him be now," he told her, gently taking the cloth from her.

"No," she protested, and she took it back. "I have to get his fever down. If I can get him cooler, then maybe he'll be able to really rest."

"He hasn't moved all this while."

"That's not so," she told him. "He was stirring just a few minutes ago. I thought he might wake up, but he never did. Still, I want to be with him when he does. He was so afraid before when he didn't know where he was or who he was, poor boy. I want him to know I'm here with him."

"You need to rest. Just lie down for an hour or two. I'll stay with him."

"You know I can't." Tears sprang to her eyes. "I can't. It'll be the same, and I can't let that happen. I can't. Not again."

"Alma," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her hair.

She put her arms around his neck and nestled her head against his chest, clinging to him, sobbing out the weary pain.

"There was nothing you could have done. Nothing. It would have happened anyway. He was hurt too bad."

"No," she moaned. "I left him. I left him and went to sleep. He needed me and I wasn't there to help him. I wasn't there, and he died."

"Alma darlin'."

Her tears were soaking through his shirt now. "Oh, Matty. Matty, why'd you ever go away from us?"

"Matty?" a faint voice asked.

Alma caught her breath, and they both looked at the boy.

"That my name?" he slurred. "Matty?"

Mercer went to him. "Now listen, son—"

"You're my father?" The boy looked at Alma, lost and searching. "Mother?"

Alma grabbed onto his hands, holding them tight. "Yes, Matty. Yes."

"Alma," Mercer said low.

She looked up at him, her pleading eyes still full of tears. "Yes. Oh, please, Mercer, yes."

He was still for a long moment. Then he put one hand on the boy's forehead and gently brushed back his hair. "Yes, son. Yes."

One side of the boy's mouth went up in an uncertain smile, and then he went limp again.

"Alma," Mercer said softly, "you can't tell that boy something like that. You know it's not so. He'll know it, too."

"Maybe not." There was pain in every line of her face. "What harm will it do? He doesn't know who he is. If he's going to die—" Her voice broke and tears rolled down her soft cheeks. "If he's going to die, I don't want him to die thinking he's alone, that he's got nobody, not even a name. It won't hurt anything to make him think he's with kin in his last hours. Oh, Mercer, please. Please, just for now, let me have Matty back."

He looked away from her, the rawness of his own pain bringing the sting to his eyes. This boy wasn't Matty, they both knew that, but maybe if she stayed with him, if she could help him get better or, barring that, could at least ease him on his way to God, maybe she'd be better able to forgive herself about Matty, their own Matty.

He swiped one sleeve over his face, and then he reached down and brought Alma's hand to his lips. "All right, darlin', all right," he said, his voice thick. "But you'd better let me go for the doctor. I don't think there's much we can do to help him now."

"But the doctor will tell—"

"No, now, he won't have anything to tell." Mercer smiled a little, feeling a sudden weight off his shoulders. "If our boy just happened to come home after being away a while, then there's no reason anybody should think anything of it."

"But since he's been shot—"

"Accident," he said. "Happens all the time. No need for the sheriff to know, is there?"

"I don't know." She looked over at the boy and then put the back of her hand to his cheek. Then she nodded. "Maybe you should. Maybe you'd better hurry."

OOOOO

"There's not much more I can do besides what you've already done," Dr. Whitman said once he'd examined the boy. "You did a fine job stitching him up, Mrs. Hazlett. I couldn't have done better myself. I wish there was a way to get some ice to bring this fever down, but the well water will have to do for now."

He hadn't asked what happened to the boy. Mercer hadn't offered. Best to say as little as possible.

"Isn't there anything more to be done?" Alma put her hand on the boy's shoulder, rubbing it gently.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave you some laudanum for when he wakes up. He's going to be in a lot of pain, but you did everything possible to help him." The doctor looked at Alma narrowly. "You got that bullet out all right."

"It was an accident," Mercer said quickly. "He was cleaning his gun and it went off and—"

"And the kick was so bad, it busted the side of his head?" The doctor lifted one eyebrow, waiting for him to go on.

Alma clutched his sleeve. "Please, Dr. Whitman, you don't have to say anything about this, do you? Couldn't you just put down he was thrown by his horse and kicked?"

"What kind of trouble is he in?"

"We don't know." Alma sank into her chair and buried her face in her hands. "My husband found him this way. He can't remember anything, not even his own name. Please, he's a good boy. Whatever happened couldn't have been his fault. Don't bring more trouble on him."

Mercer pressed his lips together. He'd lied already, might as well go on with it. "We figured he was on his way home. He'd been gone awhile from us, and we didn't know when he'd be back. I was surprised when I found him just down the road a piece, shot up like he was and hit over the head. Whoever did this to him must be long gone. We never saw anybody else."

"Please, doctor," Alma said. "Can't you just let him be? He can't harm anyone the way he is. Can't you say he was thrown?"

"And when he comes to?"

"I tell you, he doesn't remember. If somebody shot him, I don't want him knowing that and worrying over what happened. He's scared enough as it is. Whatever happened while he was away is done with. It's no part of our place now. Can't you let it be?"

"His memory loss may not last very long," Dr. Whitman said. "Then what will you do?"

Alma looked up at her husband, her hands clasped pleadingly together.

"I guess we'll just see to that when it comes," Mercer told the doctor. "Right now, we just want to see our boy through. There's no need to trouble him about anything that's over and done, is there?"

Dr. Whitman exhaled heavily. "No, I suppose not. All right, I suppose it's not important at this point. If there's trouble comes of it, then I'll have to tell what I know, agreed?"

Mercer nodded.

"But for now, as long as things are the way they are, then no harm done. Just keep him as cool as possible. Try to get some water down him. Some broth if he wakes up enough to eat it. And, ma'am . . . "

Alma looked up at him, her arched brows raised.

"You get some rest. I've seen more than one worried mother in my time. None of them was any worse for a few hours sleep.

The doctor put his belongings back into his bag, and Mercer walked with him to the door.

"Thank you, doctor." Mercer pressed some money into his hand. "I wish it could be more. The boy, well, you see what he means to his ma. She's had a hard time since he went away, and it'd be rough on her if she were to lose him again."

The doctor pocketed the money. "I can't make you any promises, Mr. Hazlett, but he has as good a chance with your wife looking after him as he ever will have. But try to get her to rest some, too. Please. I don't want to have to pay her a call next time I'm out here."

Mercer shook the doctor's hand. "Thank you, doctor. I'll do my best."

OOOOO

Jarrod pulled his horse up to the saloon in Rock Creek and dismounted. There weren't any other lights on the street. He'd been to three other towns since he'd left that campsite and had found no trace of Nick. Now it was late and he was bone tired. He led his horse to the water trough and let him have a good long drink. Then he wrapped his reins around the hitching post and went inside.

It was a Tuesday night, and the place was almost empty. He went up to the bar, hoping to get something to eat and a little information. Before the bartender noticed him, a woman in a spangled canary-yellow dress slipped her arm around his waist and gave him a coy smile.

"Looking for somebody, blue eyes?" She touched the black band around his arm. "Maybe I can help you forget your troubles."

He stepped away from her and removed his hat. "Just some information."

"That doesn't sound like much fun."

He looked her up and down. "What do you make on a slow night?"

She sniffed haughtily. "Twenty dollars."

He managed not to laugh. She probably didn't make that in a month. Still, he reached into his pocket and brought out a twenty-dollar gold piece.

"You tell me what I want to know, and this is yours. No strings."

She frowned at him. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm looking for a man. A little taller than I am, black hair, hazel eyes, twenty-two. Might be hurt. Have you seen anyone like that around here?"

"Friend of yours?"

"My brother."

She huffed. "Just my luck. No, mister, I ain't seen nobody like that. Are you sure you don't want to buy me a drink or something? I haven't made fifty cents tonight."

She looked as frustrated as he felt. He gave her the coin.

"Hey, thanks! Are you sure you don't—"

"Is there a doctor in town?" he asked her.

"Yeah, Doc Stevens."

"Where's his office?"

"Next street over, but he's not in."

"No?"

The girl nodded toward the bespectacled man at the corner table. "He's right over there."

Jarrod gave her a graceful nod. "You have my thanks." He went over to the doctor's table, hat still in hand. "Excuse me, doctor, but I was wondering if—"

"I saw him."

Jarrod clutched the back of the empty chair in front of him. "When?"

"He came through here yesterday around noon. Calls himself Smith. That your name, too?"

Jarrod shook his head. Smith. Very original. _You're nothing if not subtle, Brother Nick. _

"All the same, that's who he said he was. I took a bullet out of his shoulder, but it wasn't bad. Or it least it won't be if he lights somewhere for a day or two and gets his strength back and doesn't tear out his stitches."

Jarrod frowned. With Nick, that wasn't very likely. "Is he still in town?"

The doctor sighed and took a drink of his beer. "Moved on to Parkerville as best I can guess from what he said."

"Where's that?"

"Just stay on the road headed northeast. You'll come to it before too long. When you get there, see Dr. Chambeau. I expect your Mr. Smith will have to pay him a call if he makes it that far."

Jarrod thanked the man and went back to the bar. He bought a sandwich, stuffed it into his coat pocket, and then got back on his horse. It was a bright, moonlit night. Maybe he could get to Parkerville before Nick left there.

OOOOO

The hotel in Parkerville was shabbier than most, but Jarrod supposed it would do, especially since it was the only one in town. He waited a moment at the front desk and then, seeing no one, tapped the bell. At his third ring, the door behind the desk opened, and a narrow-shouldered man in a green eye shade came out.

"Sorry, mister, I wasn't expecting anybody this time of morning. Need a room?"

"Yeah. Could be. You have a Nick Barkley staying here?"

The man frowned. "Not that I recall."

Jarrod gave him a tight smile and pushed the register toward him. "How about you have a look and make sure?"

The clerk obliged him. "Nope. Nobody by that name."

"He's tall, dark, early twenties. Anybody like that? How about Smith?"

The clerk nodded. "Yeah. We got a Mr. Smith."

"And where is our Mr. Smith currently residing?"

"Number Eight. Upstairs, end of the hall. Better be careful there, mister. That one's a hard case if ever I saw one."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jarrod tossed the man a quarter. "Thank you."

His step was light as he took the stairs. He was glad this would soon be over.

There were fifteen rooms. As he'd been told, Number Eight was at the end of the hall. He tapped on the door.

"Uh, Mr. Smith?" There was no answer, so he tapped again. "Mr. Smith?"

"Who's there?"

Jarrod chuckled at the low growl. Brother Nick could sure put on a show when he wanted to. "Come on, Nick, let me in."

"You got the wrong room, mister."

The dread that had lifted only a moment earlier fell on Jarrod more heavily than before. That wasn't Nick.

"Sorry. My mistake."

He'd followed the wrong man. He remembered now Nick's description of their father's killer, tall, dark, young. Had he gotten rid of Nick, too? Jarrod wanted to break down that door with the number eight on it and tear into Clinton with his bare hands. Instead, he decided he'd have a few words with the local sheriff.


	5. Part Five

**Part Five**

The sheriff of Parkerville was a lanky, middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache and heavy black brows. He looked Jarrod over narrowly.

"Barkley, is it? You wouldn't be Tom Barkley's boy, would you? From over Stockton way?"

Jarrod nodded. "The man who killed him is over at the hotel. He's calling himself Smith right now. Real name's Clinton. As far as I know."

The black brows went up. "I'm surprised I'm not over there about now finding out what the shooting was about."

"I'm hoping to do this peacefully. I need to know what kind of support you'll give me in seeing he gets taken in for trial."

The sheriff shook his head and shrugged. "Not much I can do, son. Your daddy was killed in California, wasn't he?"

Jarrod gave him a grudging nod. "And this is Nevada. Yes, I know."

"All I can tell you is that, unless that man is wanted here, you have no legal right to take him anyplace he'd druther not go. And it would be my duty to arrest you for kidnapping or murder, depending on which route you took, if you tried to force the issue. I'd say you'd best leave it and go on home."

Jarrod clenched his jaw. "What about a crime he committed here in Nevada?"

"Now that is something I might can help you with. What is it?"

"I'm pretty sure he shot my brother."

"Pretty sure?" the sheriff asked.

"I trailed my brother to his camp. I didn't know which one of them went which way, and I picked wrong. But I could tell both of them were hurt."

"Sounds like a fair fight to me," the sheriff considered. "Both shot and all."

"Seems to me there's no way to know that until you bring Clinton in and question him."

"That camp in Parkerville?"

"No."

"Outside of Parkerville?"

Jarrod shook his head.

"Anywhere near Parkerville?"

Jarrod sighed.

"Not much I can do for you, son. You might go on over to the marshal's office in Reno or Carson City and see if he can help you. But I'd guess if you didn't see what happened at that camp, you'd better have your brother tell it to the marshal.

Jarrod blew the air out of his lungs. Maybe he should have busted down that door after all. Still, at this point Clinton was the least of his worries.

"I don't know where my brother is," he admitted. "Or if he's even alive."

_No_, he told himself firmly, _he's alive. Nick's alive. I'd know it if he wasn't, same as I know he needs me now._

"Seems to me then that's what you'd ought to be troubling yourself over instead of this Clinton fellow."

"I'm headed back to that camp right now, sheriff. I'm gonna see if I can pick up the other trail that went out of there. I just thought there might be something you could do about Clinton before I left."

"As long as he stays out of trouble here, he and I got no quarrel. Same goes for you, too."

Jarrod touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. "You've been a great help, sheriff."

His sarcasm earned him nothing but the sheriff's sour look.

He stepped out into the street, regretting the time he'd already wasted coming this way, but he knew he'd have to eat something if he was going to get back to that campsite and beyond. He knew he needed sleep, too, but for now he'd have to settle for coffee.

He headed for the hotel again, but before he reached the door, someone came out. Jarrod tensed. Tall. Dark. Young. Clinton.

"Hotel clerk told me you were the one disturbing my peace a while ago, mister." Clinton looked him over. "You looking for me?"

"I am."

"What do you want?"

"I want to know what happened to my brother."

Clinton snorted. "How would I know?"

"He found you at your camp on the road out of Carson City." Jarrod nodded toward the man's shoulder. "That's his bullet in you."

"I got thrown. Tore up my shoulder. That's all. Now get out of my way."

He headed toward the pinto tied in front of the general store.

Jarrod clenched his fists, wanting more than anything to rip the man to shreds. "Did you kill him?"

"Get out of my way."

He tried to shove Jarrod aside.

Jarrod didn't budge. "All right then. I'll give you a little bit of information that might interest you."

Clinton curled his lip. "Yeah?"

"The sheriff here can't hold you. I can't make you go anywhere you don't want to go." Jarrod gave him a mild, sardonic smile. "But you might want to know there's a $25,000 price on your head. If you're innocent, you'd better head toward Stockton and get this straightened out, because I can guarantee you whoever might be after that reward won't be as particular as I am about how you get there."

"Stockton? What's in Stockton that I should care about?"

"A murder charge."

"Who'd put a bounty like that on me?"

"I would." Jarrod returned the cool glare. "If you're the one who killed Tom Barkley."

Clinton laughed. "Tom who?"

"Tom Barkley. My father."

Clinton shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"Maybe you'd recognize the name Hannibal Jordan. I hear he pays his assassins well. What'd you get? A thousand? Two? You sold yourself cheap. Or didn't you think the Barkleys had money too?"

Clinton frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about, mister. Get out of my way and stay off my tail."

"You were seen, Clinton," Jarrod growled. "My brother saw you that day at our ranch."

"What ranch?"

"Near Stockton. Don't act like you don't know."

"You're crazy. I've never been near Stockton."

"The law trailed you from there to the state line. From there, there are a dozen people who remember you and that pinto of yours. If I found you, someone else can."

"So?"

"So what do you think $25,000 would mean to a bounty hunter who's used to getting three or four hundred dollars for bringing a man in? Maybe some of the bigger bounties might be a thousand or two. Maybe more once in a while. But $25,000? How many two-bit gun slingers and out-of-work cowboys do you think will be after you? That poster will be all over the country before long. There's no place you can hide, nobody you can trust to hide you and not turn you in."

Clinton's eyes narrowed. "You have no proof I was even there."

"I don't," Jarrod said, "but my brother does. If it wasn't you, you'd better turn yourself in to the sheriff here or in Stockton until I can bring him back to identify you. Or clear you."

The man was a hard case all right, but he was still young, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"If you're not the one," Jarrod said, "then you won't mind going back to Stockton and clearing your name."

Clinton crouched slightly, his hand close to his holster. "I don't fancy going west just now."

Jarrod let his own hand hover near his hip. "We can do this your way if you insist."

"All right, you two, just hold it right there." The sheriff walked across the street from his office, his gun already drawn. "It seems to me I've warned both of you about making trouble in my town." He gestured at Clinton with the barrel of his gun. "You get on back into the hotel and don't try leaving town. I want to talk to you in a while."

"I ain't done nothing," Clinton protested. "He's got me mixed up with somebody else."

"Maybe," the sheriff said. "Maybe not. That's why you're not under arrest. Yet. Now get back to your room and don't budge till you talk to me."

Muttering under his breath, Clinton did as he was told.

"Now, Mr. Barkley, you come on back to my office until you can cool down."

"I'm not the one who needs to cool down!"

The sheriff lifted one eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Jarrod pressed his lips together and took a few measured breaths. "Maybe it would be better if you invited Clinton over to your office instead of me. I'll wait."

"Either way, I'm not having the two of you trading shots here in the street."

"So instead you let him just ride out?"

The sheriff shook his head, and then he nodded at the pinto pony tied up in front of the general store. "That's his. I found out when the doc let me know he'd come in with a bullet in his shoulder. I can see that pony from my office window. I can see if anybody tries to ride off on it. All right?"

Jarrod gave him a grudging nod and followed him to his office. Once there, the sheriff made him go over everything he knew about Clinton and about his father's murder and about his brother's disappearance. Every few minutes, Jarrod glanced out of the window that looked out onto the street. The pinto was still tied up out in front of the general store.

"Look, sheriff," Jarrod said finally. "Isn't it time you talked to Clinton? I'm wasting time here. I need to go find out what's happened to my brother. If you can't do anything about Clinton, well and good. Somebody will be after him before long. Just let me get moving."

The sheriff harrumphed, but he got his backside out of his desk chair and walked over to the hotel.

"Clinton still here, Davy?"

The clerk blinked at him. "Clinton?"

"Smith," Jarrod supplied.

The clerk shook his head. "Checked out an hour or so ago."

"What?" Jarrod glared at the sheriff. "His horse is still tied up outside."

"Where'd he go?" the sheriff asked.

"Didn't tell me," the clerk said with a shrug. "Just paid up and left."

Without another word, Jarrod pushed past the sheriff and stormed out into the street. The horse he'd tied up in front of the livery stable was gone.

"Okay, sheriff." Jarrod turned when he realized the sheriff had come out behind him, and it took everything in him to keep his voice anywhere below a roar. "My horse was just stolen. Here in Parkerville. Right under your nose. Now can you arrest Clinton?"

"Well, I'll investigate the matter. Certainly. But you didn't actually see Clinton take your horse, did you?"

Jarrod pressed his lips together. "I don't have time to go after him. I trust you will. For now, I have to go find my brother. I'm going to take Clinton's pinto."

"Now, I don't know, boy." The sheriff stroked his handlebar mustache. "Just because he took your horse, and we don't even know that he did, doesn't mean you can take his."

"I'll just borrow him." Jarrod strode toward the general store. "When you bring Clinton and my horse back here, I'll bring Clinton's back, too."

"Now, look here, Mr. Barkley, horse theft is horse theft. I can't let you—"

"He left this animal tied here without providing for him to be fed and kept, I'd say that was abandonment." Jarrod swung up onto the pinto's back. "Maybe even criminal animal cruelty. Now I'll wire you when I get time, and you can tell me when I should come testify at Clinton's trial."

Before the sheriff could protest anymore, Jarrod rode out of town. He was headed back to that roadside camp where he'd found Nick's hat. After that, who knew?

OOOOO

It was dark when he woke. It seemed he had been forever in darkness. Only the lamp beside his bed gave light, and it was turned down low, barely showing him the battered dresser beside the bed and the ironwork headboard and the worn quilt that covered him. He patted the bedclothes, expecting to find the comfort of her hand. It had been there every time he had struggled into awareness, that soft, gentle hand that was always accompanied by low, soothing words and the relief of cool water. Had he ever not hurt? He couldn't remember a time, but then again he couldn't remember much of anything. Where was she?

The pain was like some kind of animal that had him in its jaws and wouldn't let him go, that toyed with him, letting him think he was getting away and then sinking its teeth and claws into him again and again. Where was she?

He put his hand under the covers and slid it down his side, down his hot, dry skin until he touched the bandages. They were wet. From sweat or blood, he didn't know. He didn't know what had happened to him. There was nobody to tell him.

He worked his fingers under the sodden strips, the lightest touch pure, blinding agony, until he felt the stiff threads. Stitches. He'd been hurt. Couldn't remember how. He closed his eyes, willing himself to remember. Anything. Anything at all.

Inside his head, there were all kinds of pictures that meant nothing to him. A campfire at night. A black-and-white horse. Riding and hurting and falling. And in another place, a lush green meadow, there had been someone else on the ground and lots of people, maybe a thousand or more, and horses with black plumes. But there were no people now. He reached out his hand again, but she wasn't there to take it. He was alone in the dark.

He leaned his head back against the pillow, forcing himself to breathe slow and even, to breathe the pain in and out. Had they left him? Maybe they'd left him here to die. Maybe he wasn't remembering right when they'd said who he was. Who they were. Where was she?

"Mother!" he screamed, but all that came from him was a pitiful whimper. A sob. "Mother."

"Shh."

He grabbed for the hand that touched his, but this wasn't her hand. It was the man's. His father's?

"Shh, now, boy," the man said, patting his face with a cool, wet cloth. "She's pretty worn out from tending you all day and all night. She finally fell asleep right here, and I carried her on to bed. You don't want to wake her now, do you?"

"No, sir," he breathed, holding tight.

"That's right, son. Now you take this and you'll feel some better."

The man lifted his head and spooned something bitter into his mouth. He half choked trying to get it down, and his cough pulled at those stitches in his side, searing him once more with pain. He whimpered again, and tears sprang to his eyes. The man blotted them away, making the same soothing sounds the woman always had

They said this was his father. He couldn't remember his father, but he saw the man's hands, strong, worn, rancher's hands, gentle and tender all the same. Somehow he knew his father had hands like these, and still he clung to him.

"Wh–what happened to me?" he murmured. "Why can't I remember?"

The man looked troubled, reluctant somehow. Just how bad was he?

"You were thrown by your horse. The durn crockhead about knocked out your brains and then stomped you for good measure."

He thought for a moment. Yes, his head hurt like blazes. His side— "Stitches. Why?"

The man frowned, and his dark brows came together. "The doc, he had to fix some things after that horse was done with you. You were bleeding inside."

"When?"

"Three days ago."

He couldn't tell about days or time, but he nodded. He nodded and he grasped the man's hand tighter. "Tell me my name again." He was feeling the pull of that medicine now. Things were getting dim. "Please."

"Matthew Hazlett."

"Matthew." The word sounded farther away than his own lips, and his eyes wouldn't stay open. "Matthew . . . Hazlett."

It was as good a name as any.


	6. Part Six

**Part Six**

**MRS VICTORIA BARKLEY**

**BARKLEY RANCH**

**STOCKTON CAL**

**HAVE NOT FOUND NICK**

**CONTINUING SEARCH**

**AM WELL**

**WILL BE IN TALON ROCK NEV TUES**

**WIRE THERE IF NEEDED**

**JARROD**

Jarrod didn't say anything else in his wire home. What could he say? That he had run into the man who'd killed Father and been forced to let him get away? That he was sure Nick was hurt somewhere and he didn't even know where to look for him? That the unnameable something inside him that let him know Nick was in trouble was the only thing making him cling to the hope he was still alive?

He urged the borrowed pinto along the road. A return to Clinton's old campsite had told him nothing. What little had been there before had been erased by wind and weather. The only thing he could do now is travel from town to town asking if anyone fitting Nick's description had been seen there, asking doctors and sheriffs if anyone had been shot or brought in hurt, asking undertakers if they'd had any recent business. And if Nick hadn't made it to a town? If somewhere in the miles and miles of open country he hadn't been able to stay in his saddle? He wouldn't think that now. Not yet.

The black armband was dusty now from miles of dirt road, and Jarrod rubbed his hand over it. Unexpected tears filled his eyes. The grief crept up on him now and then, triggered by anything or nothing. How he wanted his father now. Father would know what ought to be done. Father was no longer there to turn to, no longer there to watch over him, no longer the one the family relied on. That was his own job now, and no matter if he was twenty-six or eighty-six, he wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready to not have a father. Maybe nobody could ever be ready for that, even though almost everybody had to face it sometime or other. Ready or not, Mother was counting on him. Nick needed him.

He dashed his sleeve across his eyes and straightened his shoulders. Talon Rock was a long ways off.

OOOOO

It seemed like a long time, hours, days maybe, of waking just enough to feel the pain, but someone was always there, the man or the woman, to soothe him back to sleep with a gentle touch and a bitter dose of medicine. But each time he woke, he remembered more and more where he was and what had happened to him. He remembered his name. Matthew Hazlett. Matty.

"Matty?" She patted his cheek. "Come on, honey, it's time to wake up now. Come on."

He squeezed his eyes shut and then squinted into the light that spilled through the open window. The cool breeze blew in the faint scent of pine, and he could hear a bird twittering somewhere out of his sight.

He lay still, wondering what was different, and then he realized he wasn't so hot anymore. The pain was just north of bearable. The dark fog that had made it hard for him to think straight had lifted at least a little.

"Mother?"

"I'm right here, honey. How are you feeling?"

"Hungry," he rasped.

She gave him a cool drink. "That's good. Are you hurting?"

"Not too bad," he said, lying only a little, though he didn't think he would have been able to lift even his hand if he had tried. "Why is everything wet?"

"Your fever's broke at last. Soon as your pa gets here, we're going to put on some fresh bedding for you, and then you'll be more comfortable. How'd that be?"

"Good," he murmured. "Real good."

She wiped the sweat from his face and then kissed his forehead. "You just rest now, honey. I'm gonna get you something to fill that poor empty belly of yours and you'll be strong again before you know it."

He nodded, wondering if he'd be able to stay awake long enough to eat, but she was back in only a few minutes carrying a tray.

"I had this on the stove in case you were ready to have something. I figured you'd be coming around sooner or later today. You've been stirring more and more all along."

"You've been sitting with me all along."

It wasn't a question. More often than not, she had been there, and even when he hadn't been able to open his eyes, he remembered her voice. She'd been reading something aloud, something he knew he'd heard before even though he couldn't remember the words. Sometimes he hadn't even understood the words, just her voice.

"Why, where else would I be, honey? I had to be by when you needed me. Now you just lie back."

He couldn't eat more than a few spoonfuls of the broth she'd fixed.

"I guess those insides of yours have forgotten what it's like to eat much," she said, patting his cheek again as she took the bowl away. "But it's a good start, honey."

"Well, now."

He looked up to see the man standing in the doorway. His father, he reminded himself. His father.

"Oh, Mercer," she said, her eyes shining as she went to him. "Isn't it wonderful? His fever's broken."

"Well, that's fine. Just fine. I expect you're feeling better, boy."

"Yes, sir. Pretty much."

"I need you to help me change the sheets, Mercer," she said. "They're all sweated through, and I don't want him getting a chill now."

"All right, darlin'. We'll see to that right away. Just let me get cleaned up a little. No use getting half a pasture's worth of dirt on the boy while he can't defend himself."

He smiled a little at that, as much as he was able. They seemed so happy now, younger maybe with some of the worry off them. She brought in fresh linens, and the man came back wearing a clean shirt and with his hair slicked back.

"Now," he said, "let's get you fixed up here, son."

They bundled him up in a blanket, and the man lifted him in his arms.

"I swear, boy, you don't weigh more than a hound dog and two possums these days. We gotta put some meat on those long bones of yours."

"Yes, s-sir."

The bright room grew dim, and he could do no more than slump against the man's shoulder while she swiftly changed the bed. It seemed a shame to be put back in it when he was pouring sweat again.

"You're all right," she soothed, blotting his face as the man pulled the covers over him. "You just rest now. I'll be right here."

And he slept again, knowing she would be.

OOOOO

**JARROD BARKLEY**

**TALON ROCK NEV**

**HOLD FOR RECIPIENT **

**PLEASE STAY IN TOUCH EVEN IF NO NEWS**

**AUDRA AND I PRAYING**

**PLEASE FIND NICK**

**MISSING YOU BOTH**

**MOTHER**

Jarrod folded the telegram and put it into his shirt pocket. He needed to be home. Mother must be going crazy there, mourning for her husband, anxious about her sons, trying to keep her daughter from worrying too much. He knew they were praying. He'd prayed, too.

"Let it be the next one," he'd asked every time he'd leave a town without any sign of his brother. "Let it be the next one, please."

He thought about Clinton, too, each time he mounted his borrowed pinto. He might be in Mexico by now. Or on his way to New York. Or on a boat to South America. Jarrod didn't care anymore. He could go to China for all it mattered. Just as long as he stayed away from any and everything Barkley.

The sheriff in Talon Rock had told him about the next few towns ahead: Lawless, Rattlerun, Allen Lake, Whiteroots, Tin Cup, Purity Creek. He'd check them all, one at a time, It was likely they'd all be the same, too, little gray towns with too many saloons and not enough doctors, with people scratching and clawing to somehow make some kind of permanent place for themselves and others drifting through wanting none. Still, one of those homesteaders, one of those drifters, one of those sheriffs or doctors or storekeepers had to have seen Nick. He pointed the pinto toward Lawless and turned his face to the heavens.

"Please. Let it be the next one."

OOOOO

"' . . . and said unto thee, Thou art my servant; I have chosen thee, and not cast thee away. Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness . . . '"

He didn't open his eyes. He knew it was dark again. Without looking, he could see the little lamp turned down and the circle of light that would be on her bent head and over the book as she read. Her voice was low and soft, lulling him in and out of sleep. He knew what she was reading now, the words coming back to him from all the times he'd heard them before.

"'They that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of nought. For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee. Fear not, thou—'"

"Mother?"

She immediately took his hand. "Why aren't you asleep, honey?"

"I was afraid," he murmured. "Before, I mean."

She put down the book and used her free hand to cup his face. "I thought you might have been. I thought you'd just about have to have been, seeing everything that's happened, not knowing who you were or where you were, not knowing us. But you don't need to be." She stroked his cheek. "You aren't now, are you?"

He didn't know how to answer that. He wasn't afraid of her or of him. He felt safe with them, safe where he was. Cared for. But he couldn't tell her what it was like still not knowing who he was. They had told him, but he didn't really know. Not on his own. It was only something he'd been told. Despite what they'd said, despite those words she'd read, he felt that he had been cast away, that he wasn't anybody anymore. Yes, he was afraid.

"Not as much," he told her, half ashamed to say he was at all but somehow knowing she wouldn't think less of him for it. "Not with you here."

"I'll be with you, honey. Don't you worry. Just go to sleep now."

He leaned into her caress. "There's so much I don't know."

"About what?"

"About me."

He knew he was tall, taller, from what he could tell, than his father. His hair was dark, black he supposed, judging from the strands that sometimes fell into his eyes before she pushed them back. Either of them could have had dark hair before it went gray. It was hard to know about his eyes, hers being deep brown and his pale blue. His own could be one or the other or some mix. He looked at her for a long moment, studying her face. She had just a little nose, turned up like a girl's, but his was strong, hawklike. He felt his own nose. Not as prominent as his. Not little and turned up like hers. Straight. He traced his fingers over his lips and then over his stubbled chin and along his jaw line. Wide mouth, square jaw, a slight cleft in the chin. He couldn't seem to put the pieces together into any kind of a whole.

She smiled at him. "Tomorrow we'll see about cleaning you up a little, all right? A nice, close shave will make you feel better, I'm sure."

He nodded.

Her expression clouded. "But?"

"I just— I don't know what I look like."

There was sudden pity in her eyes and more than that. More than pity. More than worry. Fear. Why would she be afraid? But she smiled again.

"Why you look like the fine, handsome young man you've always been."

He frowned. "That doesn't tell me anything."

She bit her lip. Then, without a word, she left the room. She came back a moment later with a mirror hardly bigger than her palm. When she handed it to him, he could have sworn that she held her breath.

He looked into it and hazel eyes looked warily back at him. He searched the face. Black brows. Tanned skin. Hollow cheeks. A little peaked looking, but that was no surprise after what had happened. Everything else fairly much what he expected. Nobody he recognized.

Disappointed, he handed the mirror back. "Thank you, Mother."

Looking relieved, she touched his cheek. "You used to always call me Ma."

He ducked his head, smiling a little. "Ma."

"Oh, Matty."

She folded him into her arms, and he buried his face against the curve of her neck, clinging there.

"I wish I could remember," he murmured, his voice suddenly thick. "I wish I could remember you."

She stroked his hair. "It doesn't matter, honey. It doesn't matter. You remember right now, and that's all that's important." She turned his face up to hers, and there was a desperate plea in her doe-brown eyes. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"Sure," he said, looking away.

He knew she did. Heaven help him, he could see it plain in every look and every touch, every tender kindness done, that he was precious to her. Why couldn't he remember that he loved her? There was nothing but gentle sweetness in everything she did, a mother's deep and abiding love. It had to be breaking her heart that he couldn't remember how that felt. That he couldn't remember his own mother.

He made himself look up again and smile into her eyes. "Sure I do, Ma."

He leaned up and touched his lips to her forehead, and she cuddled him close again.

"Now," she said when she finally let him go. "It's time you were asleep."

"It's time you were both asleep."

The man was in the doorway again, frowning, but only benignly.

"Oh, Mercer," she immediately protested. "It's hardly nine."

"Oh, Mercer, nothing," he said, coming to her and lifting her to her feet. "How do you expect him to get his strength back if you don't let him get some rest?"

"But Mercer—"

"Go to bed, darlin'. I'll stay here and look after the boy. I mean it now. Tomorrow, I'll go into Tin Cup and get the doctor out here, but I think you and I both know he's past the danger point. When's the last time he had to have something for pain?"

"Well," she said reluctantly.

"Go on now, and in the morning you can fix him and me both some salt pork and eggs. How's that sound, boy?

He smiled. He wasn't sure he could get down the salt pork, but maybe the eggs would be a good start. "That'd be fine."

She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Goodnight, honey. Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Ma."

She went to the door, stopped, and then hurried back to him, clutching him close one more time. "You make your pa come get me if you need me, promise?"

"I'll be fine now. You go on."

"Promise me, Matty."

"I promise."

OOOOO

It was late when Jarrod got into Lawless. He found the sheriff in the saloon, but neither he nor anyone else there had seen anyone fitting Nick's description. The local doctor was out on a call and the telegraph office was closed until morning. There was a storm blowing in. He decided to get a room at the hotel and start fresh the next day. Rattlerun, Allen Lake, Whiteroots, Tin Cup, Purity Creek, he'd check them all, and if Nick wasn't in any of them, he'd find out what was ahead and keep on.


	7. Part Seven

**Part Seven**

He woke to the soft patter of rain and a slate-gray sky outside his window. The weather hadn't let up for two or three days now. For a change, he was hungry rather than thirsty.

She seemed surprised to see him awake when she looked in on him. "Well, good morning. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better, Ma. Hungry."

She beamed at him. "I have breakfast on the stove. It's salt pork and eggs again, like usual. That all right?"

"It's fine, but, uh . . . "

"What, Matty?"

"I'd sure like a good piece of steak instead of the pork. Would that be all right?"

She laughed, her brown eyes dancing. "I'd love to bring you some steak, honey. I know how much you like it. Maybe sometime when we have a little cash money coming in we'll have some. We'll make a treat of it. Would you like that?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Right now, what you have will be just fine."

"I'll get it for you."

He watched her as she hurried back into the kitchen. It was foolish to have asked for steak when it was obvious they didn't have much money. Might as well have asked for champagne and chicken creole as much as steak. But then again, steak had seemed like the usual thing to have for breakfast. How he'd gotten that notion, he couldn't say, but he was glad she had laughed over it. He couldn't remember her laughing before. He liked her laugh.

She brought him a tray a few minutes later and then helped him sit up before setting it on his lap. Then she tucked a napkin into the neck of his nightshirt. "Are you sure you can handle this for yourself?"

He nodded. "I've been too much a burden on you already, Ma."

"Hush that foolishness and eat your breakfast."

The eggs were scrambled and she had cut up the salt pork for him, so all he needed was the fork she'd brought. She watched him take the first three or four bites, and then she patted his shoulder. "All right, then. You eat that, and I'll see to your pa's."

He looked through the rain-spattered window and out to the low-hanging clouds. "I guess he's liking all this rain. Can't hardly have too much this time of year."

"And it gives him a chance to catch up on some of his inside work, too."

He frowned. "I need to be helping him, Ma."

"In time, honey. When you're stronger."

He huffed and didn't say anything.

"Now, no clouding up. We've got enough of that outside. Don't you worry about work. There won't be anybody rushing in to do it for you while you're not looking."

That teased a little bit of a smile from him. "All right, Ma. But I'd better get eating again or I'll never get out of this bed."

"That's what I brought your breakfast for. Now you call me if you need something."

"Thank you," he said around a bite of egg.

As usual, the food was good, but he found he could get down only about half of it. He didn't like that. It was wrong to waste so much, especially if money was scarce, and he didn't want her to think he was ungrateful, but he was afraid he'd be sick if he ate another bite.

"Had enough, honey?" she asked when she came back in.

"I guess I can't hold any more, Ma. I'm sorry."

"Now, no need to apologize. A little at a time is all we can expect till you get your strength and your appetite back. I think you did very well."

"It was real good," he told her as she took the tray from him. "Do you think I could have some coffee, too? It sure smells good."

She looked him over, and he gave her what he hoped was an engaging smile. Somehow he knew it would help get him his way.

"I suppose a little won't hurt you," she said finally. "But don't ask me for more. Not until the doctor's been to see you."

"I don't know, Ma. I'm all right, aren't I? I mean, I hate for you to have to pay the doctor to come out and say what I could tell you already. He was just here anyway. All I need is some resting up."

"The last time he was here was three days ago. He said you were better, but that doesn't mean you're well yet. I want him to look you over and make sure you're healing proper. You don't worry about the money now. We'll make out all right. And we'll get you that steak, too. Maybe sooner than later. How's that?"

He smiled again and leaned back against his pillows.

"You're happy this morning," she said. "You must have had a happy dream."

He nodded. "I dreamed I lived in the biggest house you ever saw. Why just the parlor was about as big as our whole place."

"That sounds like a nice dream."

"There were big, wide steps, golden steps, going up and up, and at the top of the steps—" He stopped, confused. It had been so clear before, but it wouldn't come back to him now.

"What was at the top of the steps, honey?"

"I— I don't know. Somebody was waiting for me, but I don't know who."

"Somebody you wanted to see?" she asked, feathering back his hair with her fingers.

"It was. I don't know. I wanted it bad, and now I can't remember."

"Well, don't think about it anymore. Whoever it was is only as real as that big house you dreamed up."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." He thought for a minute more, silent until she began to look concerned. "Ma?"

"Yes, Matty?"

"Did I ever have a brother and sister?"

She looked at him strangely. "Yes. Yes, you did. Do you remember them?"

He thought hard, but they were just a glimmer now. "Not really. No. Will you tell me about them?"

She set the tray down, went to the dresser, and took something out of the bottom drawer. It was a photograph of three children, a boy of about eight, another boy a year or so younger, and a baby girl. None of them looked familiar.

"That's you," she said, pointing to the younger boy. "And your brother, Dan, and your little sister, Clara. I'm afraid that's the only picture we have of the three of you. It was kind of frivolous to spend the money on it, but your pa said we'd ought while the photographer was through town. Turns out he was right. There never was another one by."

He put one hand up to his bandaged head. "I had fair hair?"

"Why, uh, lots of youngsters start out cotton-headed and get dark," she said. "Your pa did. Till he lost most all of it."

He chuckled. "But where are they now?"

The smile left her face. "I'm afraid they went in the epidemic. Clara was seven. Dan was fifteen. That was six years ago. We thought we'd lose you, too."

He rubbed her arm. "Seems I've been a lot of trouble to you."

"No, honey. No trouble we weren't glad to take. Not at all."

He watched her face, the familiar wistfulness that had settled into her eyes. "I thought they were older."

"Who's older?"

"My brother and sister. Don't know why."

She hesitated, looking at him gravely. "Do you want to see?" she asked finally.

He nodded, and she took the Bible from the top of the dresser where she'd left it the night before. She opened to a page in the front and showed it to him, pointing out the lines under where it was headed _BIRTHS & DEATHS_.

_Daniel Mercer Hazlett, b. April 17, 1849, d. June 4, 1864_

_Matthew Prescott Hazlett, b. May 2, 1850_

_Benjamin James Hazlett, b. December 22, 1853, d. December 23, 1853_

_Clara Paralee Hazlett, b. March 27, 1857, d. June 3, 1864_

He studied the page for a moment. So he was twenty now. That was good to know, though it was strange to know, too. It didn't seem right, but it didn't seem wrong either. He couldn't remember.

He handed the book back to her. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For you losing them, I guess. I'm just sorry."

"It was a long while back, Matty. We gotta be glad for what we have rather than grieving what we don't, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah." He was fortunate, no, blessed, to have been here with his own ma and pa when he was hurt. He might have been alone out on the prairie somewhere or in the middle of strangers who wouldn't have cared if he lived or died. No matter what else, he'd landed easy. "Yeah, I'd say." He lay there a moment, staring out at the rain, and then he looked at her again. "Tell me what happened."

"What happened when, honey?"

"When I got hurt."

"I thought we told you that. Your horse threw you and then kicked you as best we can figure."

"I know that part, but where was I when it happened? What was I doing?"

She stared at him for a minute. "What do you mean?"

"You said before that I'd gone away." He remembered hearing her say it. It was almost like a dream, but he could hear it plain. _"Oh, Matty. Matty, why'd you ever go away from us?"_ "Where'd I go?"

"I don't know, honey. Truly, I don't. I just know your pa found you out on the road not far from the house a few days ago. Coming home again, we're sure. Where you belong."

"But why—"

"Now, don't you trouble yourself over that. We'll talk about that when you're better." She kissed his cheek and then rubbed the back of her fingers over it. "Are you ready for your Pa to shave you?"

He caught her hand. "I think I can do it now."

"Now, honey, I don't think that's a good idea just yet. Better let Pa do it this time."

"Now, Ma, if I'm old enough to grow whiskers, I expect I'm old enough to shave 'em off by myself."

"What if you were to cut yourself? I don't know how steady you are right now. Please, honey, for your ma's sake, let him do it."

There was such pleading in her dark eyes, he couldn't bear to deny her.

"All right, Ma, if you want."

Smiling, she picked up the tray and went out. "Mercer? Can you come help Matty?"

A minute or two later, the man was standing in the door with the mirror, shaving mug, and razor. "You're looking a little less peaky, boy. Feeling better?"

"Yes, sir. Very much." He looked around a little, making sure she was out of earshot. "I thought I'd shave myself today."

The man chuckled and handed him the razor and the shaving mug. Then he stood with his back to the door, holding the mirror for him and carefully blocking the view if she should happen to look in.

"She's good at using those eyes and that sweet voice to get what she wants, son," he said low, "but it's better if she doesn't get her way all the time."

He grinned at the man and then lathered his face. His hand shook at the first stroke or two of the blade but then grew steadier. He knew he had done this many times before, no matter if he couldn't remember even one.

"Ma says you're doing inside work while it's raining," he said as he shaved. "Anything I could do?"

"I'm mending some harness. Maybe you could help if you're feeling up to it."

He stretched down his upper lip and carefully shaved under his nose. "Yes, sir, I'd like that. I'm about to run myself crazy lying here doing nothing."

"I guess that's a good sign. We'll see about that mending once you're done here."

He was just finishing shaving his neck when a faint gasp from behind the man made his hand jerk. He felt the nip of the razor and the warm wetness of blood as it trickled down his skin.

"Mercer! What in heaven's name are you two doing? Have you lost your mind?" She rushed up with the dishtowel she had in her hands and started blotting away the blood and lather. "Matty, I told you you weren't steady enough—"

"Now, darlin', he was doing fine until you made him jump." The man took the dishtowel from her and pressed it over the stinging place. "Here, boy. That's no more than a little nick. Take hold of this."

He did as he was told, giving her a little smile as he did, half shamed and half pert. "I'm gonna have to do it myself before long anyway, Ma."

"You can't keep him helpless there forever, darlin'," the man said, taking her arm so she couldn't hover over the bed. "It's time we started letting him do for himself."

"I know," she said with a rueful smile. "You just go ask the doctor to come see to him, Mercer. If he says the boy can get up, I won't stop him. How's that, Matty? Fair enough?"

He nodded. "Fair enough." He looked over her head and met the man's kindly blue eyes. "Thanks, Pa."

OOOOO

The rain had made Jarrod's progress from Lawless through Rattlerun, Allen Lake, and Whiteroots slow and miserable. It was still raining when he rode the pinto into Tin Cup. Once he'd seen to the horse, instead of going straight to the sheriff or the local doctor, he got a hotel room with a bath. The bath was just a tin one filled, once it had been carried up to his room, with hot water. He sank gratefully into it and promptly fell asleep.

It was after noon when he woke, and the water had gone cold. He hauled himself out of the tub, dried off, and put on the change of clothes he carried in his bedroll. Then he dunked the dirty ones in his bath water, swished them around briefly, wrung them out, and put them over the back of a chair to dry. He stared at the bed after that and then reluctantly stuffed his feet back into his boots, strapped on his gun, and went out into the drizzling rain.

He was wearily unsurprised to find that the sheriff hadn't seen anyone fitting Nick's description. Tin Cup had been pretty quiet the past week or two and, he told Jarrod significantly, he'd be happy if it stayed that way. The undertaker's was conveniently next to the sheriff's office, so Jarrod stopped in there next. The mortician mentioned, too, the recent peacefulness of the town, but he seemed somewhat more disappointed at that eventuality than the sheriff had been. He hadn't seen Nick either. Jarrod headed over to talk to the doctor, after which he promised himself a trip to the hotel dining room and then to the inviting bed he'd left behind.

It would have made sense for the doctor's office to be near the sheriff's and the undertaker's, but instead it was at the far end of the street. The sign read _Dr. R. D. Whitman._

He shook the water from his hat and opened the door. "Dr. Whitman?"

The doctor came out of his back room with his glasses pushed up on top of his head and his sleeves rolled up and was drying his hands with a towel. He had a weathered face and kind eyes and looked about forty or so.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so. My name's Jarrod Barkley. I'm looking for my brother, Nick."

The doctor put down his towel and started buttoning his sleeves. "I'm sorry, but I don't know that name. Are you sure he's in Tin Cup?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid I'm not sure of much of anything at this point. I've been looking for him ever since I left home in California. He might be using a different name."

The doctor's sandy brows went up. "What name would that be?"

"I don't know. I thought it might be Smith, but it turned out that was the wrong man."

He watched the doctor's eyes, but there was nothing there but regret. "I'm afraid I haven't treated anybody but local folk for the past month or more. I know all of them, or at least who they belong to. No strangers. I'm sorry." The doctor perched on the corner of his desk. "What's this brother of yours look like?"

"Twenty-two," Jarrod said, the words coming automatically by now. "Taller than I am, dark hair."

The doctor shook his head.

Jarrod sighed. "Thank you all the same. I'll be at the hotel overnight. If anyone like that comes in—"

He broke off when the front door opened and a wiry-looking old farmer came in.

"Excuse me, doctor. I didn't know you were busy."

"Everything all right?" the doctor asked, getting to his feet. "Your son hasn't taken a turn, has he?"

"No, he's mending pretty fine as best I can see. But Alma, well, you know how she is about the boy. He's fidgeting to be up and about, and she won't hear of it until you come by and say he's fit enough."

Fidgeting to be up and about. Nick was always that way when he was laid up. This man's son seemed just as restless.

The doctor chuckled. "You tell her I'll head to your place as soon as I'm finished here. And tell her not to worry."

The old man touched his hat. "Thank you, doctor. I'll do that." He nodded at Jarrod. "Sorry to interrupt you, mister."

"It's no trouble," Jarrod said, returning the nod. "I hope your son is better soon,"

The man went back outside, and the doctor looked thoughtfully after him.

"That's one I thought I'd lose, but I guess there's a lot of healing in a mother's love." He chuckled again. "You know, you didn't give me much of a description, but their boy just about fits it."

Jarrod didn't smile. "Except he's their boy and not my brother."

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

"Thanks anyway."

Jarrod put on his hat and walked back into the rain. Tomorrow he'd push on to Purity Creek.


	8. Part Eight

**Part Eight**

He lay very still as the doctor looked him over, almost holding his breath as he watched the older man, trying to read every twist of his mouth and quirk of his eyebrows, waiting for his verdict. She stood at the side of the bed with her hands clasped over her heart, watching, too.

"Well, Mrs. Hazlett," the doctor said at last. "I'd say this boy of yours is much improved. I see no harm if he gets up and around now, carefully at first, mind. Do you understand that, young man?"

A broad smile covered his face and he nodded vigorously, even though she still looked unsure.

"For today at least, make sure somebody's with him when he does," the doctor told her. "He can do some light work. Very light to begin with. No lifting or he'll split that wound wide open, understand? Keep those bandages clean, and then bring him to see me in a week unless he has troubles, fever and suchlike. We'll see then if it's time to take those stitches out."

"Are you sure, doctor?" she asked him, dark eyes anxious.

"Now, Alma," her husband said, "you told me you wouldn't squabble about it if the doctor said it was all right for him to get up some now."

"I know," she said, and she managed a little bit of a smile. "And I won't." Her expression grew fierce. "But, Matthew Prescott Hazlett, if you don't do just what the doctor said, you're not so big yet that I won't paddle your britches if need be."

He felt as if his cell door had just swung wide open, and he couldn't help laughing. "I will, Ma. I promise."

"Don't coddle the boy now, ma'am," the doctor advised. "If he's going to get his strength back, he needs to be out of that bed as much as he's able. And you, young man, no foolishness. You be very careful the next few days. Expect to tire easily, and when you do, rest. I won't lie to any of you. I didn't much think he'd last out the night the first time I came out here. I'm not about to have anything happen to him now."

"We'll see to him," she said.

The couple walked the doctor to the front door. He could hear them all talking for a moment, and then she came back into the room.

"Happy now, honey?" she asked, smiling fondly at him.

"Yeah. It's high time I helped out around the place."

"Now, remember what the doctor said."

"I know, Ma. I know. You remember, too. I'm supposed to get up when I can." He plucked at his nightshirt. "And I'm about sick of this. What'd you do with my real clothes?"

She glanced at her husband who had just come into the room. "I'm afraid your shirt was ruined. But I managed to clean and mend your pants. Your boots are all right. I guess I'll just have to make you a new shirt when I can."

"Don't I have any other things?" He realized they were not well off, but surely he had at least a second shirt. And he'd need socks and drawers and suchlike.

She bit her lip. "Sure, honey, but besides what you were wearing when you left, they were already a little small on you. We should have got you new some while back. Now, well, we'll have to see. You let your pa help you get dressed."

He had to pull his belt in an extra notch to keep his pants where they belonged. The socks were fine. The drawers were all right, too, if a little snug, and so was the shirt, and that surprised him. He could tell he'd lost some weight since he first woke here, and he was well aware of how little he'd been able to eat in the time since, but that ought to have made his clothes looser. It certainly wouldn't have made his shirt sleeves hang too short. But then again, she had told him he'd fairly much outgrown everything before he'd gone. Gone where, he wondered again, and why? He'd have to remember to ask.

"That feels better," he said, rolling up his sleeves.

The man grabbed his arm when he swayed a little and made him sit in the chair. "Easy there, boy. You don't want to end up right back in that bed."

"No, sir." Smiling, he pulled up the front of his shirt and blotted away the sudden sweat from his upper lip. "Now what about that harness mending?"

"First, let's see how you do sitting at the table and having some coffee while your ma makes supper."

"But—"

"Don't you worry, son. There's enough work to go around. Let's get you steady on your feet before we start thinking on that. Why don't we go show Ma how you look?"

She was at the stove frying up potatoes and onions.

"I smell chicken roasting, Ma," he said, putting his arms around her from behind.

She turned, looking pleased and pensive all at once. "Matty, honey. Don't you look fine." She stroked her fingers over his sleeve. "You won't remember, but I made you that shirt for your last birthday."

"It's a fine one." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I hope I thanked you for it."

"You did, honey. Now I thought I heard something about some coffee a minute ago. You still want some?"

"Yeah." His steps were a little uncertain, but he walked over to the table and sat down.

The man sat next to him, and she brought them each a cup.

"Supper'll be ready in a minute or two. I hope you're both hungry."

He was surprised how just a few bites of that chicken made him ravenous for more. He forced himself to hold back. It wasn't much of a chicken after all and he didn't know how long she expected it to last, but he didn't resist when she pressed seconds on him.

He didn't say much while they ate. Mostly he listened to them talking about what they had done that day and what they expected to do the next. It wasn't right for them to have to do so much by themselves. Why had he left them without anyone to help out?

"How long ago did I leave?" he asked abruptly.

The two of them looked at each other.

"About a month before your pa found you and brought you back." She reached over to put her hand on his. "We thought we'd lost you for good. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, you were gone."

He frowned at that, at the tears that had come into her eyes. "And not a word to you? That seems a poor thing to do. Why'd I go?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Pa?" he pressed.

Lips closed tight, her husband turned to her, but she only looked troubled.

"I don't know why, Matty," she said. "God forgive me, I don't. I'm just thankful He's sent you back."

"I wouldn't do that to you, would I?" Somehow he didn't think he would, not to his own mother, but it seemed he was wrong. Some folks didn't set much store by family. He couldn't imagine why.

"That's all past now, boy," the man said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to grieve you both. I guess I just—" He frowned, struggling to remember something, anything. "I don't know what it was that made me go, Ma. I'm just glad Pa brought me back home."

"Oh, so am I, Matty. So am I." She touched her napkin to her eyes and then smiled again. "All that matters is that you're here now. That and one other thing."

He looked at her expectantly, seeing the gleam in her eye. "One other thing?"

"Pie."

He grinned.

"I thought I smelled some baking earlier today," her husband said. "Peach, if I'm not mistaken."

"Peach. What do you think, Matty? Could you hold a piece of pie? Maybe a little more coffee?"

Pie and coffee, too. He couldn't say no to that. "Yes, ma'am, I'd like that. But where'd you get peaches?"

"Oh, I canned some last fall. These were the last of them. I used the last of the sugar, too, but I figured it was kind of a special occasion, having you up and around."

The last of the sugar. It wasn't right for them to have to scrimp on something as simple as sugar. Tomorrow he'd have to start working again, whatever it was he could do. It was only right for him to help out and, in time, maybe even earn a little extra money besides somewhere so they could have what they needed. They weren't going to have to make do or do without as long as he was there to help.

OOOOO

When he started nodding over his nearly empty pie plate, she insisted that he go lie down. It wasn't late yet, but he didn't argue with her. He wanted to be well rested for tomorrow, and if the rain quit, he planned to be up with the sun.

She came to sit with him once he was in his nightshirt and back in bed. "Do you want me to read to you again, honey?"

"Sure, Ma."

She read to him nearly every night now. The hum of the words made it easy to relax, easy to fall asleep. He lay back against the pillows, thinking of what kind of work he could start out with. The harness mending ought to be all right. But then what? He went over in his mind the long list of chores needed to keep a place like this going. All of them took a strong, able body. Well, he had to start somewhere.

"'And all the days of Enos were nine hundred and five years,'" she read, "'and he died. And Cainan lived seventy years and begat Mahalaleel:'"

He closed his eyes, listening to the soothing sound of her voice and the steady beat of the rain. He'd think of something tomorrow.

"'And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters.'"

He was tired from just the doctor's visit and sitting at the table to eat, but tomorrow he'd do more. It was time he did something to help his folks out instead of expecting them to tend him all day long.

"'And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.'"

He was eager to be out working, back on horseback. Maybe before long he could ride into town and talk to the doctor, private like, and see if he knew any way to help him remember again.

"'And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared.'"

He caught his breath and stared at her as she looked down at the book, her sweet face golden in the lamplight.

"'And Mahalaleel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters: And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died. And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat —'"

"Ma?"

"What is it, honey?"

He took the book from her, frowning. "'And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died. And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch: And Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and begat sons and daughters: And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died. And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah: And Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:'" His frown deepened, and he read it over again, silently this time. "It's spelled wrong," he said at last, and he handed the book back to her. "It's spelled wrong."

"What's spelled wrong?"

"'Jared.'" He shook his head, scowling now. "That's not right."

She laughed softly, and her eyes were warm. "Well, how do you think it ought to be spelled, honey?"

He thought about that. He thought for a long while. And then he sighed. "I don't know."

She patted his hand. "I'd say the folks who set this down knew better than we would about how that's spelled, don't you think?"

"Maybe."

His voice was tight, as tight as the grip he had on the quilt that covered him. What did it matter? How did he know that was spelled wrong when he didn't have any idea what the right spelling was? What difference did it make anyway?

She read a verse or two more and then stopped. "Is everything all right, Matty?"

He didn't look at her. "Sure."

"Maybe we'll read a different part," she said, making her voice cheerful, and she read the part about green pastures and wanting for nothing and being forever followed by goodness and mercy.

OOOOO

Alma read a few verses more, making her voice softer and softer and then finally stopping altogether. Her boy was asleep now. She turned back to where she had been reading in Genesis, all those begats. What in the world could have been in there that had upset him so?

_Lord, there's so much about him we don't know. What can we do to help him? What can we do but love him while we have him?_

There was a sharp pain in her heart. She was sure now that he wouldn't die, but that didn't mean he wouldn't someday remember. That didn't mean he wouldn't leave.

She didn't want to wake him, but she couldn't help touching his cheek and then his hand. He hadn't been with them long, but now she couldn't imagine being without him. It hurt too much.

"Darlin'?"

She looked over to see Mercer standing in the doorway.

When he saw her expression, he came to her at once. "What is it? What's the matter?"

She shook her head. She couldn't talk about it, not here. She didn't want the boy to overhear what she had to say.

"We ought to let him sleep now. We can talk in the other room."

Mercer nodded, his forehead wrinkled, and he lifted her to her feet. She was about to blow out the lamp, when the boy started to stir. She glanced at her husband, and then went to the bedside. The boy was shaking his head, soundly asleep but sobbing softly.

She looked at Mercer again and then put her hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking him. "Matty? Matty, honey?"

His eyes flew open and he grasped her hand, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Ma?"

"Shh," she soothed, sitting in the chair again, holding tightly to his hand. "I'm right here. What is it, honey? Did you have a bad dream?"

He nodded and swallowed hard. "I was in that big house again. I saw— I went up those golden steps and somebody was there."

"Who was it, Matty?"

"I don't know. I couldn't much see her, but she was wearing black, all over black and a long black veil, and she said—"

He looked away, and she took him into her arms.

"What did she say? Tell your ma."

"She said— She said, 'Your father is dead.'"

"Oh, honey."

"He's dead. He's dead."

She kissed his forehead and stroked his hair, but that only seemed to make things worse for him. Finally, she looked pleadingly at her husband.

Mercer sat on the side of the bed and pulled the boy into his own arms. "Here now, son, it's all right. It's all right. I'm right here."

The boy looked up at him, his eyes full of tears and pain. "Pa?"

"I'm right here, son. Right here."

"Pa." He ducked his head against Mercer's chest, sobbing out his deep grief. "Father, Father."

OOOOO

It was some while before the boy fell asleep again. Alma didn't want to leave him, but Mercer took her by the hand and led her to the table. Then he poured each of them a cup of coffee and sat down close to her.

"We have to talk about this, darlin'. Now."

"Oh, Mercer, that poor boy." She wanted to cry again herself. "He must have just lost his pa."

"That explains why he had on that black armband when I found him."

She nodded. "I expect so. But if his father's dead, then maybe he's got no one but us."

"And what if he has a grieving mother who doesn't know what's happened to him? It's not right to keep him from her."

"But maybe not," she pled.

"That woman in black he's remembering," Mercer insisted. "Who else would she be?"

"It was just a dream."

"And so was that about his father? He was wearing that armband. He'd lost someone. If that woman's lost her husband, she's already mourning. How much worse to lose her son, too? What if he's all she's got?"

Alma wrung her hands together, thinking for a moment. "No. He has a brother and sister. He doesn't remember them, but he knows he has them. That woman won't be alone."

"You don't know that. You don't know that at all."

She pulled her handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Did you forget about that gun and all that money he had on him? Suppose he's wanted? Do you want him going to prison or being hanged?"

He frowned at her. "Pshaw, Alma, that boy? All the time he's been here, does he seem that kind?"

"No. No, he's a good, sweet boy, just like our Matty. But if he can't remember, then how can we know who he belongs to? Or if there's anybody but us for him to go to? What do you want to do? Give him back his gun and his money and send him out to nobody?"

"No. Not that. But we're not talking about easing a dying boy anymore. How can we keep on making him think he's who he's not?"

"Could you turn him away?"

"Alma—"

"Did you do wrong just now, letting him think you were his pa? Should you have just told him his pa was dead and left him there hurting and more confused than he is already?"

"Darlin'—"

"Then what? What ought we to do about him? Tell him he doesn't belong to us? Tell him he's got no name and no place?"

It was a question neither of them could answer.

OOOOO

The rain stopped sometime in the night. At dawn, Jarrod took his nearly dry clothes from the back of the chair and rolled them into his bedroll. Then he went downstairs, paid for his room, and went out to the muddy street and down to the livery stable. He passed the telegraph office on his way, but didn't stop. There was nothing to say but what he had always said: _AM WELL. HAVE NOT FOUND NICK. CONTINUING SEARCH. _

How long would it be before Mother told him to come home? And if she did, could he go? Could he go home knowing that would mean he'd given up? Knowing it would be an admission that Nick was dead?

He couldn't do it.

He mounted the pinto and headed up to Purity Creek.


	9. Part Nine

**Part Nine**

Jarrod peered into the dusty window of the Purity Creek Sheriff's Office. It was hard to see much in the dim inside, but there was a man in there with his head down on the desk and his left arm stretched out in front of him. Jarrod pushed on the door and it swung silently inward. Then, thinking better of getting too close to a sleeping lawman, he knocked as loudly as he could.

The man at the desk had his gun drawn before his feet even hit the ground. "You suddenly stop liking being alive, mister?"

He spat the words like bullets, and his gravelly drawl marked him as a Texan.

Jarrod was careful not to move anything but his eyebrows as he took in the tin star pinned to the man's grimy shirt. "Sorry to disturb you, sheriff. I was hoping to get a little help."

The sheriff glared at him through narrowed blue eyes, his breath still coming fast. Then he ran his left hand through his sweaty dark hair and holstered his gun with his right.

"What is it you need?"

Jarrod realized abruptly that most of the age he'd originally attributed to the man was merely dirt, wariness, and temper. He couldn't have been any older than Jarrod himself. Maybe not even that. Still, he looked like he knew his way around whatever was thrown at him.

"I'm looking for my brother. I was hoping he'd passed through here."

The sheriff sank back into his chair and let out a weary breath. "How 'bout you find yourself a place to light for an hour or two and then come talk to me? I was out all day yesterday and all night tracking down that yahoo in there." He jerked his head toward the man in the cell who was snoring away with one wrist cuffed to the metal frame of the bunk. "Haven't been back more'n a hour."

Jarrod nodded, fighting to keep his shoulders from sagging. "All right, sheriff."

He was halfway to the door when he heard another heavy sigh. "Wait a minute, mister. Why don't you go ahead and tell me about it?"

Jarrod went over to the desk again. "A little while back, my brother—"

The sheriff used one foot to shove back the chair beside the desk. "Have a seat. You look about as wore out as I feel."

Jarrod sat. "My name is—"

"Coffee?" the sheriff asked, getting up again. "I figure it'll keep us both awake."

"Sure. Thanks."

The coffee must have been left over from the morning before, but it was hot and Jarrod was grateful for it.

"Anyway," he said when he thought the sheriff would let him talk, "my name's Jarrod Barkley, and my brother—"

"Stockton Barkleys?" the sheriff asked, glancing at the black band around Jarrod's arm.

Jarrod nodded.

"Heard about your pa. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. Have you seen a wanted poster out on a man named Clinton?"

"Yeah," the sheriff said, his eyes narrowing again. "That's some reward you folks have out on him."

"Not much else we can do since he left California."

"This have something to do with your brother?"

"My brother's name is Nick. He went after Clinton after our father was shot. I'm pretty sure they tangled somewhere out northeast of Carson City. Clinton was shot in the shoulder, but I found him in a place called Parkerville and he got away."

Anger blazed into the sheriff's eyes. "Caswell down there's a droolin' idiot."

"You know him?"

"You didn't think he was a droolin' idiot?"

Jarrod couldn't help a slight smile. "I did."

"Then I guess that answers your question." The sheriff sat forward a little in his chair. "What happened after that?"

"Not much of anything I'm afraid. I've hit every town between there and here and haven't found out anything about what happened to my brother."

"He wasn't hurt when he and Clinton crossed trails?"

"He was. Pretty badly from what I can tell."

The sheriff's face darkened. "I don't like to say it, but he might not'a made it to a town."

It took Jarrod a moment to answer. "I've thought of that."

"Yeah."

The sheriff's voice was soft, and there was something in his weary eyes that made Jarrod wonder.

"You have any brothers?"

"I had four once. They were all killed when I was fifteen."

Jarrod wanted to say he was sorry, but somehow the words wouldn't come. Losing one brother was hard enough.

"Your brother," the sheriff asked, all business again. "He older than you?"

"Younger. He's twenty-two."

"Then why—"

"Why'd he go after Clinton and I didn't?" Hating the ragged anger in his voice, Jarrod took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. "He's the only one who saw Clinton the day our father was murdered. He can definitely identify him."

"Didn't want to leave it up to the law," the sheriff said perceptively.

"Yeah. I think Clinton's gone to Mexico or some other place he can hide by now, but Nick—"

"Don't you bet on that, Mr. Barkley. If your brother's the only one who saw him, I'd expect Clinton to see to it he can't testify to that in court. If he can pretend he was never there when your pa was killed and there's nobody to say different, just maybe he can get out from under that price you got on him. Looks like there's just your brother standing between him and staying alive. If you want your brother to live, you'd better find him before Clinton does."

Jarrod glanced toward the cell. "Looks like I've come to the right place."

The sheriff's brow wrinkled. "How do you mean?"

"I'm about out of ideas where to look. You seem like you're pretty good at finding your man. If you were after my brother, where would you go?"

The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck with his black-gloved hand, thinking. "Hurt bad you think?"

Jarrod nodded.

"Then it doesn't seem likely he'd have made it this far from where he and Clinton crossed. Instead of coming up a straight line like you did, I'd've circled around. Could be he found a place to hole up until he could travel and then set out another direction. Maybe he's headed back to Stockton."

Jarrod shook his head. "I've kept in touch with my family. They'd wire me if they heard from him."

"All right, but I'd still circle around. If it were me, I'd head over to Part-and-Parcel and then down to Torn Ridge and Sandy Creek. After that—"

"Wait a minute. Maybe I'd do better with a map. You have a piece of paper?"

Looking faintly annoyed, the sheriff shuffled through a stack of wanted posters, found one he wanted and smoothed out the crumpled page. Then he took a pen from the desk drawer and dipped it into the inkwell. He wrote _KILLED_ _May 1870 _across the rough drawing depicting the outlaw. Then he signed it _Trace Russell, Sheriff, Purity Creek, Nevada_. Finally, he turned the poster over.

"Now, if Carson City's about here," he said, making an X, "where would you say your brother found Clinton?"

Jarrod pointed, and Russell drew another X and wrote _camp_ by it. Then he drew the road Jarrod had followed veering northeast up until it got to Purity Creek. He wrote the town name at the end of that road.

"Okay, we're here," Russell said. "Now, if you circle farther out southwest, you'll hit the places I named."

He made another series of Xs and wrote the names he had mentioned:_ Part-and-Parcel, Torn Ridge, Sandy Creek_. Then he added _Ironwater, Oliver City, Westridge _and_ Deer Run_.

"Deer Run is south of the campsite, right?"

Jarrod nodded.

"If you don't see any sign of your brother by then, then you ought to finish the circle back around northeast way."

He made more Xs and added more town names Jarrod had never heard of.

"If you get all the way back here and haven't found him," Russell said, pointing out the X just below and right of Purity Creek, "then pull in the circle a might until you tighten in on that camp again." He handed the paper to Jarrod. "That's all I can tell you except I wish you luck."

"Thank you, sheriff, for taking the time to help me out. I'm sorry to have interrupted your sleep."

Russell shrugged. "I'm glad to lend a hand. If you run into trouble, you give the local law my name and they'll help you out."

"Except in Parkerville."

Russell snorted. "Caswell's a droolin' idiot."

Jarrod chuckled grimly and shook his hand. Then he went out to where he had left the pinto and mounted up. He thought as he looked up at the sky that he ought to make it into Part-and-Parcel before dark. And, for once, it didn't look like rain.

OOOOO

Jarrod followed the map Sheriff Russell had made for him. It didn't take him long to get through the first three towns on the list. It was in Ironwater that he finally got a lead. According to the local law, a man fitting Nick's description had been through town just two days before. He hadn't needed the doctor and he had stayed only long enough to get a beer and a sandwich at the saloon before passing on east.

Jarrod remembered what Russell had said about Clinton wanting to get rid of the only eyewitness against him. He was fully aware the man the sheriff had seen could be Nick or Clinton or a total stranger. Either way, he had to catch up to him.

OOOOO

It had been cool the past few nights, the drizzling rain had returned, and there was a chill in the air. He'd meant to ask her for another blanket, and he never remembered to until he was lying there shivering in the middle of the night, too cold and too sleepy to get up and get one himself. He remembered now before he got undressed. He wouldn't bother her while she was still in there at the table enjoying her coffee. There must be an extra quilt or something around. He looked in the bottom drawer of the dresser, but there was only some old clothes in there, a little girl's things, an older boy's. Finally he opened the chest that sat at the foot of the bed.

"Shoulda looked in here first," he grumbled, taking out a wool blanket.

The wool would probably be too heavy when the weather was only cool and not cold, but he saw that the chest also held a patchwork quilt. That was more like it. The quilt was faded and well worn, but it looked comfortable. She'd probably made it herself one time or other. Maybe for his brother or sister. Maybe for him.

He folded the blanket over the ironwork footboard and then pulled the quilt out of the chest. There was something bundled in it. Something heavy. With a glance toward the open door, he laid the quilt on the bed and unrolled it. Inside was a black armband, a six gun and rig, and a wad of money. He looked toward the other room again and then stepped to the door and silently pushed it to. Then he went back to the bed.

That was a lot of money. He didn't have to count it to know that. The bills were large and there were a lot of them. If they were hurting for cash, why hadn't they used this? It would take them through a lot of hard times in style.

Then there was the armband. That meant mourning. That meant death. But whose?

And the gun. He pulled it from the holster, admiring the slickness of the action. It wouldn't take any more than a thought to clear leather with that rig. That gun, it fit his hand just right. Like he was born to it. Was this all his?

Careful not to make a sound, he picked up the gun belt and slid it around his hips. One of the holes was more worn than the others, so he buckled it there. It was easy to imagine it had fit him just right before he'd been hurt. He pulled it one notch tighter and then slid the gun into the holster and drew it. It fairly leapt into his hand. And when he holstered it again, there was something comfortingly familiar about the weight of it. It took him only a moment to tie it down.

He heard them laugh in the other room. Before he could do more than turn toward the door, there was a quick knock and the door opened.

"Son, we thought tomorrow you'd—" The man stared at him. "What are you doing?" He swiftly shut the door again. "What are you doing with that on?"

"Is it mine?"

Eyes wary, the man nodded. "We thought it best to put it up. Your ma—"

He rubbed his hand over his still-healing wound. "I was shot, wasn't I. I wasn't thrown, I was shot. What did I do?"

There were sudden pictures in his head. A campfire at night. A pinto pony. A skillet full of beans. Pain.

"_You're through. You're out of bullets and your gun belt is closer to me than you."_

He remembered the words, even if he didn't know who had said them.

"_I'd have come to visit sooner, but I had a funeral to go to."_

Whose funeral? When?

He picked up the armband. "Was I wearing this, too?"

A man didn't wear mourning for just anyone. A wife. A child. A sister or brother. A mother. A father. _"Your father is dead."_

"Was I?" he demanded.

"Son—"

"Matty, honey." She was in the door now, her dark eyes wide with fear.

His voice shook. "I want to know, Ma. I have to know."

Finally, she nodded. "But we don't know why. We don't know for who. Lord help me, it's true. You just had it on when Pa found you."

"Who shot me? Why?"

"We don't know, son." The man looked as grieved as she did. "We don't know anymore than you about that. It was just the way I found you."

"And the money?" He grabbed up a fistful of crumpled bills. "I guess you don't know about that either. Where I got it. Or how."

Her husband had his arm around her now and she was crying against his chest.

"We just don't know, son," he said. "We put it up because, well . . . "

Nobody had to say it. Because it could be it was taken from somebody, and they didn't want any truck with stolen money.

Suddenly his knees went weak and he had to catch the bedpost to keep from falling. He managed to sit down instead. Who was he? What was he? What had he been?

"You're tired, honey," she said, going to him. "Lie down now. You're all right here. You're safe." She started tugging at the gun belt, trying to take it from him. "You don't need it. Not here. You're safe here."

He pushed her hands away, unbuckled it himself and gave it to her. She handed it to her husband.

"Matty, whatever happened, you can stay here and be safe."

He looked at the black arm band that still lay on the bed and at that pile of money. Then he looked into her frightened eyes. "And if somebody comes looking for me?"

The two of them only looked at each other.

"Matt," the man said gently. "Son. Listen—"

"Ma's right," he said, his voice tight. "I'm tired. If you'll both excuse me, I think I'll get to bed now."

"All right." The man rubbed his shoulder and gave it a pat. "Goodnight, boy."

She merely kissed his forehead and turned down the lamp, and then they left. But once he was alone, no matter how long he lay there, he couldn't sleep. There were too many things running through his mind, things that wouldn't let him alone.

She had left the Bible on the dresser as usual, and he picked it up, opening it at random. A verse caught his eye.

_He hath put my brethren far from me, and mine acquaintance are verily estranged from me. My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me. They that dwell in mine house, and my maids, count me for a stranger: I am an alien in their sight._

His breath came a little harder. That book had a way of cutting right to the point.

_Far. Estranged. Failed. Forgotten. Stranger. Alien. _Nobody.

Nobody.

There was a soft tap at the door, and he clenched his jaw, setting his face in hard lines. "Come in."

She brought him a glass of milk. "I saw you still had the lamp lit and thought you might like this."

"That's kind of you, Ma, but no. Thank you."

"Honey."

She touched his cheek, light and soft, and he flinched. Then he wrapped himself in his arms and turned his whole body away from her.

"Honey," she murmured again, stroking his hair and kissing it, somehow understanding. "I know you have a lot of questions we can't answer for you. I know you're feeling lost and like you don't belong anywhere. But, no matter what, you have a home here. We could never forget you, not in a hundred years and more. And even if somehow we could, the good Lord wouldn't. Hasn't He got you right here where you're loved and wanted? Who else would you go to?" She put her arms around him, but he didn't turn into her embrace. "Even if you can't remember, it doesn't mean He's forgotten. It doesn't mean He hasn't been looking out for you right along."

He took a shuddering breath and nodded, calming now. Maybe she was right. He'd been hurt so bad, what if he hadn't had her and him both to take care of him? What if he'd just been left to die? He was loved and wanted. He hadn't the slightest doubt of that. Why wasn't it enough? He had to make it enough. He turned to her at last.

"I'm sorry, Ma. I know you're right. And I'm grateful to you, more than I can say, to you and Pa, for all you've done."

She bit her lip, her dark eyes filled with more deep sorrow than he'd ever seen, and then she lifted her chin. "Do you want to go, Matty? Would you feel better some other place? I would never hold you if you don't want to stay."

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know."

He ran both hands through his hair. "It's not the place, Ma. It's— It's the not knowing. I know you've told me, but even you can't tell me everything, and hearing it isn't the same as knowing it. I have to know."

She was crying now, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he could.

"I have to know." He kissed her forehead. "Please understand. Please try."

"I do, honey. I do understand. If I could fix it for you, I swear I would. I just don't know how."

"I know. Don't cry. I know. Please don't cry." He kissed her temple and then her cheek. "Don't cry, Ma. I love you."

She caught her breath.

The words had come out before he realized, and then he realized he meant them. He didn't remember her or him. He didn't remember loving them, but he loved them now. He didn't want to hurt them. He didn't want to leave them with nobody to look after them. He didn't want to bring trouble on them either.

"Oh, honey." She put one hand over her mouth. "What can I do? I don't know. I don't know."

"It's all right." He kissed her forehead again, this time gravely. "Tomorrow, I'm going into town."

"You're going away."

"No," he said swiftly. "No, just to town. Just for a while. Why would I leave my own ma and pa unless I had to?"

For a long while she stayed there against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, her arms tight around him as if she never wanted to let go. Then slowly, deliberately, she pulled back from him.

"Did you mean it, honey?" She reached up and touched her fingers to his cheek, looking as if her heart would break. "What you said?"

He didn't understand at first, and then he did. "Yes, Ma, I love you. How could I not?"

"No matter what?"

He laughed softly. "No matter what."

She took his hand, silently bidding him to come with her. "Pa's at the table. We've been talking a while. There's some things we need to say."


	10. Part Ten

**Part Ten**

He let her lead him out of the room and to the table by the stove. Her husband was waiting there as she had said he would be, his face grave and uncertain.

"Sit down, boy."

He did as he was asked. "What is it?"

"There are . . . things we haven't told you. We figure it's time you heard."

She brought them both a cup of coffee and then sat down with her own. He was surprised when she let her husband do the talking.

"I want to tell you about our son, Matty."

He smiled uncertainly. It was an odd way for them to tell him about himself, about whatever it is they had been holding back from him. Maybe they'd tell him at last about who he had been before he'd been hurt.

"You know we lost our Clara and our oldest, Daniel, in the epidemic six years ago," the man said, and he put his arm around his wife. "But our Matty survived. He grew up to work alongside me on the farm, to help his ma and see we were both looked after. He was just twenty, but he was a good man. A strong man. A hardworking man. And then, not very long ago, Matty was thrown from his horse and afterward kicked real bad. That next night, he . . . he died."

He felt the air go out of him, as if someone had punched him in the stomach, hard, merciless. "What?"

She didn't say anything. She just looked at him with those eyes that begged him to love her. To forgive her. To understand. He didn't understand. It was as if the man had been speaking words in some foreign tongue.

"He died, son. We couldn't bear staying where we were, where we'd lost all our children, so we sold out and moved here to start over. We hadn't been here a month when I found you out there in the road so hurt it didn't seem there was much chance you'd live."

He looked from him to her and then to him again. "I'm— I'm not your son? I'm not—"

She lowered her head and put her hand over his, rubbing her thumb against his wrist.

"Your ma—" The man winced slightly. "Alma here, she wouldn't hear of anything but seeing to you herself, keeping you here until you were well enough to travel. You were so bad off and didn't know who you were or where you belonged. You heard us talking about our own Matty, and somehow you thought that was your name. We, well, we didn't want you dying thinking you didn't have anybody who cared for you, so we let you think we were your folks."

"But that Bible." His voice shook. "Those dates. Why wasn't there one for your son? For when he died?"

She lifted her head, and there were tears streaming down her face. "I couldn't do it. I knew if I wrote it, that would mean it was so, and he was the last. The very last."

The man tightened his arm around her shoulders. "It took us the better part of a year to write it in after Clara and Dan went."

"Tell him the truth," she said, wiping her face with her hand and then turning from her husband. "I wouldn't let him write it in. I knew they were gone, only I couldn't bear to set it down. Just like with Matty." She took hold of both of his hands, squeezing them tight. "I'm so sorry, honey. It wasn't something we did to hurt you. We thought it would help when you were so bad off. I guess we never thought through about what would happen afterward."

He sat there staring at nothing. _Far. Estranged. Failed. Forgotten. Stranger. Alien. Nobody._ "I'm not your son," he murmured finally. "I'm not . . . anybody."

"If we'd known who you were or where you belonged, we'd have told you," she said. "I swear, we would have. You didn't have anybody else. We didn't want you to think nobody cared for you."

"That was kind of you, M–, uh, ma'am."

He had no ma. No ma and no pa. He had an armband, some money, and a gun. _"Your father is dead." _Maybe it was so. Nobody had come for him. Maybe nobody even missed him. He had thought that maybe, with folks like these, he couldn't have done anything too terribly wrong, but now he realized he was just a stray they'd taken in. A charity case. Nothing to them. Not really. He might be an outlaw. A thief. A murderer. All he knew is that he wasn't their son. He tried to pull away from her, but she wouldn't let him.

"Does it have to be ma'am, honey? After all this while?"

"I can't—" He drew his hands out of hers and stood up. "I'd best be leaving."

"No!" She stood up, too, reaching for him again and then clasping her hands together over her heart. "It's late. You don't have to go right this minute, do you?"

"Oh, Ma—" He stopped himself, feeling the tears hot behind his eyes, not wanting them to come. "I'm sorry. It's not right for me to call you that. I'm not anything to you."

"That's not true. Maybe you weren't at the very first. Maybe I just wanted Matty back, but now— Oh, honey."

Was it true? It was the one thing he'd thought he knew for sure all this while.

"I wasn't lying to you before." She cupped his cheek in one hand. "I love you. We love you. You don't have to go."

That love was plain in her eyes. It always was, always had been. He glanced at her husband who was standing now, too, right beside her. There was nothing in his expression but a plea for understanding, and kindness and sorrow, and yes, love, too. Both of them had cared for him all this while. Both of them had done everything they could to save his life and to get him well. Everything they would have done for their own son.

"You don't know what I am! _I_ don't know what I am! I can't stay here!"

"But where will you go?"

"I don't know." The words that managed to get past the tightness in his throat were scarcely louder than a breath. Where would he go? Where could he go? "Into town, I guess." He forced a little more strength into his voice. "I can stay at the hotel."

She blinked and pressed her trembling lips together. "Are you that angry with us, honey? Have we hurt you so bad you can't even stay the night?"

"Oh, God help me, no." He looked up at the ceiling and then squeezed his eyes shut, unable to hold back the tears. "It's not that. Ma, I— Pa—"

Suddenly her arms were around him and then his were around them both. He didn't care anymore whether he was or wasn't their son. They were still the ones who loved him. The ones he loved. The only anchor he had. Ma and Pa.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't let you—"

"Yes, you can, boy."

He felt a strong, worn hand, a rancher's hand, clasp the back of his neck, gentle and tender. Maybe it wasn't his father's hand, but it was Pa's. The arms holding him were Ma's. Somehow, now that he knew they weren't his parents, it was easy to think of them as Ma and Pa. It's just what they had been to him all along. Nothing he was expected to remember.

"Nothing's changed," Pa said. "We want you here as long as you care to stay. And if you remember—" He managed a wry smile. "_When_ you remember, you go or stay, whatever you need to do."

"Please, honey." Ma looked up at him with those doe-brown eyes of hers still sparkling with tears. "At least for a time. You need someplace to call home till you know what you want to do. It's true you're not our son, but you're still our boy."

He sniffled and smiled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I guess that's something I know for sure. For myself." He smiled again and then scowled as fiercely as he could. "That doesn't mean I'm going to keep letting you tend to me like you've been. I have to find out what I can about who I am and what happened to me, but when I'm here, I pull my weight, all right?

Ma looked uncertain, but Pa only chuckled.

"I've been trying to get her to see that anyway, son. I figured the best way to drive you off was to try to keep you cooped up."

"But, Matty—" She caught her breath. "I hadn't thought. What is it we ought to call you now?"

His smile faded. "I couldn't rightly go by your own son's name," he said, even though it was the only name he knew to answer to.

Pa looked at her and then at him. "We know you're not our Matt, but it's kind of got to be a habit calling you by the name. Do you mind, boy?"

He shook his head, and then he also looked at her. "It won't hurt you, will it, Ma?"

"No, honey." She patted his face again. "You're Matty to me now, even if someday you find a different name."

He sat down again, more suddenly than he expected, and closed his eyes. It was almost more than he could take in.

"Are you all right, honey?" she asked at once.

"Yeah." He put his hand around his coffee cup but didn't drink. "I told you, I'm going to town tomorrow."

She managed to smile a little. "Pa'll drive you."

"No. I need to go by myself."

"You're not—"

"I'm fine. The doctor said to come see him to have these stitches out. I need to do that. I need to talk to him. I need to go see what I can find."

"Matty, you can't—"

He looked at her sharply. "You said you wouldn't hold me."

She dropped her head.

He caught her hand again. "I won't be very long gone. I swear I'll come back. You have to let me, Ma. I can't go on the way I am."

"Let him." Pa took the gun and rig out of one of the cupboards and held it out to him. "And you'd better take this, son."

"No," she breathed. "Mercer, no. He doesn't need that."

"He ought to have a chance."

"No. Not that way."

"Do you want to send him out helpless?"

She shook her head, and Pa handed him the gun.

"You take that, boy. And you come back."

He took it. It was a part of his past. He had to go find the rest.

OOOOO

He didn't make it into Tin Cup until midmorning the next day. Ma wouldn't let him leave without a substantial breakfast, one he was grateful for, and then she made him take a turn around the corral before she'd feel right about him riding away.

"It's been a while since you've been on a horse, honey. And that bay's been getting frisky without any work all this time."

But he had only laughed and kissed her cheek and remembered not to gallop until he was out of her sight. By the time he got to town, though, he was reminded of Dr. Whitman's warning that, for a time, he would tire easily. He was grateful to slide out of the saddle and a little breathless by the time he knocked on the doctor's door.

"Well, come in, young man," Dr. Whitman said, smiling broadly. "How are things? How are you feeling?"

"Better than when I saw you last."

"And how are your ma and pa?"

He hesitated at that. If Ma and Pa had moved here only recently, maybe the doctor didn't know he wasn't their son. Maybe he did. He couldn't be sure. Being the doctor though, he had to know what had really happened to him.

"They're fine," he said a little stiffly. "Why didn't they tell me I'd been shot?"

The doctor looked startled. "They told you that?"

"No. I just figured it. Isn't that the truth?"

Dr. Whitman nodded. "I think they didn't want to worry you over it, over what might have happened."

"Did they give you any details about it?"

"No, son, I'm sorry. Your pa said he found you not far from the house. That's the most he knew."

He exhaled slowly. "Why can't I remember?"

The doctor examined the side of his head. It hadn't needed a bandage for some while. "Nothing at all?"

"Just little things. I'm not sure if they're dreams or memories. Nothing helpful."

The woman in black. The young man and the little girl. Were they real? Were they his family? Did he have a family?

"I'd have thought you would have at least begun to recall a little bit by now," the doctor said. "These things take time sometimes. Just don't worry about it for now. Get rest. Eat well. I know your ma will see to that."

"Yeah." He didn't smile.

"Come and lie down." The doctor patted the examination table. "Let's have a look at those stitches."

He did as he was told and pulled up his shirt. The doctor had him take off his gun belt and his regular belt, too. Then he brought the lamp over and set it on a nearby table.

"Is it hurting you anymore?" he asked, pressing against the skin around the still-livid scar just above the waistband of his pants.

"A twinge now and then. No fever or anything."

"Your folks took good care of you."

He nodded, smiling a little now. "They did."

"All right then. Let's get these stitches out."

It took only a minute or two, and apart from a slight pull here and there, there was no pain. When it was done, the doctor swabbed the incision with alcohol which stung more than when he took out the stitches. Then he examined the area one more time.

"You'll do," Dr. Whitman said at last, and he gave him back his belt and his gun belt. "Go home and stay out of trouble."

He tucked in his shirt again, put his belt around his waist and strapped his gun around his hips. Then he paid the doctor and thanked him. A moment later, he was in the muddy street, wondering what to do next. He thought of talking to the sheriff, but then he noticed the saloon. _The Copper Penny. _There was no better place to get information than the local barkeep. He crossed the street and went inside.

It wasn't much past noon by then, and except for a couple of trail hands having lunch and playing cards at a table by the window and a lone man drinking whiskey in the corner, the place was empty. He looked at the men playing cards, searching their faces for recognition and getting back nothing but bored indifference. The other man, the whiskey drinker, watched at him as he walked to the bar. He was lanky and dark. Young. Using his left hand to drink and keeping his right somewhere under the table. Out of sight. There was nothing familiar about him except the wariness of a gunman.

"What'll it be, mister?" the big bartender asked when he walked up to the bar. He was half-a-mountain of a man with a square Irish jaw and garters on his sleeves. Most likely he was called Mac or Harry or Sam.

"Do you know me?"

The bartender looked him over for less than a second. "Can't say as I do. Should I?"

"No, no reason you should. Just hoped."

The man looked suspicious for a moment, and then there was sympathy in his eyes. "Something bothering you, boy? I ain't no priest, but I've heard my share of confessions."

"Anybody been in here looking for anybody?"

"Not that I've heard. There was a fellow a little while back, but he moved on pretty soon after. Didn't say where to."

No way to track that one down. "Who was he?

The bartender thought for a minute. "Said his name was Barkley, if I remember right. Looking for somebody called Nick."

Those names meant nothing to him. "Nobody else?"

"Don't remember any. Why do you ask?"

The whisky drinker was looking past the men playing cards now, staring out the window.

"I, uh, got hurt a little while back, hit my head bad. Since then, I can't remember anything."

The bartender shook his head. "Say, that's too bad. Nothing at all?"

"Nothing but waking up. I was hoping somebody around town might know who I am. Or somebody might be asking for me."

"That's too bad. You seen the doc about it?"

He nodded gloomily.

The bartender turned and filled a mug from the tap and set it on the bar in front of him. "On the house, son. You look like you could use it."

He smiled faintly and took a drink. "Thanks. You haven't heard of anything else happening around here recently, have you? I mean something big. A bank robbery or something?"

The bartender laughed heartily. "Not likely. Our little bank wouldn't be much worth the trouble. I heard there was a stage through here was robbed, but that was, oh, seven or eight years back. We have a rough trail crew through here now and then, but they get bored pretty quick and move along."

He couldn't do more than nod at that. He was fairly sure he hadn't gotten that money by being a trail hand, rowdy or not. Finally, when the bartender had nothing more to offer and the beer was half gone, he sighed.

"Thanks for the drink anyway. And for hearing me out."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help," the bartender said. "Maybe you ought to have a talk with the sheriff. He knows most everybody hereabouts, and if you're missing from someplace, somebody most likely would have asked him about you."

"Thanks." He hadn't wanted to get the sheriff involved, just in case he had been mixed up in something he shouldn't. But still. "I'll do that."

He had barely reached the boardwalk when he heard the sound of boots behind him. It was the man who'd been drinking whiskey in the corner.

"Look here, Coop," he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "You don't want to talk to the sheriff."


	11. Part Eleven

**Part Eleven**

"You don't want to talk to the sheriff," the man from the saloon repeated, his voice soft and urgent. "He's more likely to believe that poster than you."

"What poster? Do I know you?" His heart was racing, and he had to force himself to not grab the front of the man's shirt. "Do you know _me_?"

The man looked puzzled, worried. "It's me. Danny. Daniel Lansing. You and me met up in Reno, rode together, oh, nearly a year. Then a couple months ago—" Lansing tipped back his hat and pushed his dark hair off his forehead. "Well, a couple months ago, you and me got bushwhacked out on the trail. I thought you was killed and lit out. When I saw you just now, I figured it had to be somebody else, especially when you didn't know me." Lansing looked him up and down. "You look some thinner now. Kinda peaky. You musta been hurt bad."

"Yeah." He rubbed the fresh scar in his side. "Yeah, I was."

"We'd better get someplace and talk." Lansing looked up and down the street, and then he nodded toward the hitching rail. "I got a camp down the road a piece."

"Why not go back into—"

"Look, I heard what you told the barkeep in there. I guess you weren't lying when you said you don't remember what happened to you. There's a bounty hunter on your tail, boy. If you're smart, you'll get off the street and out of town and you won't stop to talk about it."

A bounty hunter. What had he done?

"But—"

Lansing jerked his chin toward the hitching rail. "One of those jugheads yours?"

He nodded, his thoughts swirling inside his head and crashing wildly into each other. "But I don't— You _know_ me?"

"I tell you, we rode trail together." Lansing's words were quick and urgent. "Then this bounty hunter started dogging us. All the way from Reno. He wouldn't let up."

"Wh-why? What's he after me for?"

"Look, boy, there's no time. You head out. Take this road south till you get to a double oak alongside an old, broke-down wagon and then turn east into the hills. I got a little camp out there. You'll see it. In a grove of oaks near a creek."

"But you—"

"I'd better go back inside and tell the bartender I thought you were a pal of mine but I was wrong. Then I'll leave out the other way so, if anybody asks, folks can say we went our separate ways. This bounty hunter, he knows we been friends awhile. Nobody here knows your name, but they know mine. If the bounty hunter asks after me in there, I want him to hear I lit out a different way than where I'm going."

His heart was running like a locomotive on a steep downgrade, and now he did grab the front of Lansing's shirt. "But what's my name? For the love of God, what's my name?"

"You really don't know, Coop? You really don't know me? Think hard."

He searched the man's face, but there was nothing there for him to know. He had to know. "Please."

Lansing gave his hand a sympathetic pat and gently released himself. "You're Mike Cooper."

Mike Cooper. Coop. The name meant nothing. Nothing at all. No more than Matthew Hazlett or that Barkley name the bartender had mentioned. Coop. He had a name at last, and he was a stranger to it still.

"You have to tell me—"

"Not here," Lansing hissed. "Not now. You go on. I'll meet you where I said. I don't want anybody thinking that's where I'm headed. I'll catch up to you, on the road or in camp."

He stood there for a moment with Lansing waiting expectantly, and then he finally exhaled. "We'll play it your way then."

He needed answers. He was so close now, he had to know something. Anything. Lansing had been his friend. He would know something, about the bounty hunter, about the reward, maybe about the money that was hidden in the chest back at the Hazlett place and the armband, too. Still, this wasn't the place to discuss it.

"I'll be waiting," he said. "But make it quick. Please. I've gotta know."

"Don't worry. I'm not losing you now that I finally found you." Lansing looked him up and down, and one side of his mouth turned up in the barest hint of a cool grin. "We have a lot to talk about, you and me. Now get going."

He got going.

OOOOO

The man Jarrod had been trailing had gone east out of Ironwater. In a little place called Campaign City, Jarrod found that the same man had spent the night in the hotel and then had ridden east again. Following the man would take him back into Tin Cup. If it was Clinton, why would he be going there, unless it was to get back to the camp where he had shot Nick?

In Parkerville, Jarrod had made the mistake of reminding Clinton that Nick could identify him. It was likely that, since Clinton was coming from this direction now, he had circled around after he had left Parkerville, meaning to come back to that camp and track Nick down from there. Jarrod had to find Nick first. The only advantage he had was that, judging by the obvious tracks Clinton was leaving, he didn't know anyone was trailing him. That is, if it turned out to be Clinton in the first place.

The tracks went straight into Tin Cup. Jarrod lost them in the rest of the hoofprints and wagon-wheel marks that ran down the main street, but at least he knew whoever he was tracking was in town. He considered going straight to the sheriff's office, but that hadn't proved helpful in Parkerville or much anyplace else. He headed for the saloon instead.

"Well, speak of the devil and doesn't he walk right in the door?"

Jarrod raised his eyebrows at the large Irish bartender who stood grinning at him from behind the bar.

"It is Mr. Barkley, isn't it?"

Jarrod nodded and took the beer he offered. "I'm surprised you'd remember me."

"To tell the truth, I hadn't thought about you till, oh, an hour ago, more or less. I was just telling someone you'd come through here a while back. Did you ever find that Nick you were looking for?"

Jarrod shook his head.

"I'm sorry for it," the bartender said. "What brings you back this way?"

"Still looking. I'm on the trail of the man who might be trailing him. Have you had any strangers in today or yesterday?"

"Two, as a matter of fact. One of them was the young fella who I told about you. I thought he and the other one might have been friends, but it turned out they weren't acquainted."

"Either of them tall, dark haired, young twenties?"

"Well now, it seems you're a seer. Both of them were."

Jarrod clenched one fist, forcing his expression to stay cool. "Both of them?"

"Not that they looked alike, mind you, but as you say, both were young, dark, and taller than most."

"Where'd they go from here?" Jarrod asked as calmly as he could manage. "Did you see?"

"As it happens, I did. They took the main road out of town."

Nick knew Clinton. He would never ride out with him, not of his own free will.

"They rode out together?"

"Nah," the bartender said, leaning one elbow on the bar. "The one I told about you left first. The other one followed him out to see if they were acquainted and then came back in, finished his whiskey, and then left a few minutes later."

None of that made sense. Maybe Clinton would have come back into the bar, waited a while, and then trailed Nick to find a convenient place to ambush him. But if Nick had seen and talked to Clinton, he would, at his most restrained, have hauled him at gunpoint to the local sheriff. None of that had happened. From what the bartender said, they hadn't recognized each other.

Jarrod clenched his jaw. Maybe he was on the wrong trail after all. But two of them fitting Nick's description? Right here together? It was too much of a coincidence to imagine that at least one of them wasn't someone he was trying to find.

"Which way did they ride?"

"Which one?" the barkeep asked.

"They went separate ways?"

Of course they went separate ways. Having only one direction to track them would be far too simple.

"Oh, yes. The first one went south. The other went north."

Jarrod frowned at the man. "And you hadn't seen him before?"

The bartender shook his head.

"Or the other one?"

"Never."

Jarrod took a deep drink and thought for a moment. He could head north and end up in Purity Creek again just as empty as he had been the first time. Or he could head south back the camp where he'd started from. But that was where he expected Clinton to be heading. Maybe the first man who'd been here in the saloon had been Clinton. Maybe, as hard to fathom as it seemed, that second one had merely been someone passing through. Someone who thought he knew Clinton but hadn't. Someone who wasn't Nick but, through pure coincidence, happened to be six-foot-two, dark haired and twenty-two years old. Jarrod could think of no other way to explain it. It didn't matter anyway. The important thing was to track down Clinton and keep him from getting at Nick.

He paid the bartender generously. "If someone comes in fitting my brother's description, tell him to stay put till I get back. I'll make it worth his while."

The bartender smiled at the money before he tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. "I certainly shall, Mr. Barkley."

Jarrod thanked him and went out to the street. He took a quick look around and then mounted the pinto and headed south.

OOOOO

He hadn't gotten very far out of town when he saw Lansing coming up behind him.

"You made good time," he said, pulling up his horse.

"Didn't want to keep you waiting. Sure didn't expect to find you alive, much less to find out you didn't remember what happened." Lansing peered at him. "You really don't remember anything at all?"

"I remember a horse. A pinto. Don't know if it was mine or his. I remember a campfire, and somebody had died before then." He rubbed the side of his suddenly aching head. "And I knew I was hurt, but I didn't realize I'd been shot until later. That's all."

"I feel bad now, pard. I was sure you were a gonner or I'd'a come back." Lansing looked him up and down. "Yes, sir, I'd'a come back and made sure."

He waited, but Lansing didn't say anything more.

"Well, come on," he demanded finally. "You have to tell me. What happened? Why's that bounty hunter after me? What did I do?"

"One at a time, all right?" Lansing glanced back toward Tin Cup. "But we ought to ride while we talk. I don't fancy that bounty hunter catching up to us."

He nudged his horse into a canter. "So tell me."

"What do you want first?" Lansing came up beside him, picking up speed. "I guess it'd better be about that bounty hunter. None of the rest is gonna matter if we don't see to him."

He nodded grimly, unable to keep from looking down the road behind them. "What's he after me for?"

"Says you killed a man. For money. "

He gripped his reins a little tighter and tried not to be sick. It was what he'd feared the most. He could see the horror in Ma's eyes, the revulsion in Pa's, if ever they knew this was what he was. A murderer. A hired killer. He knew he didn't belong to them, but they were all he had. He loved them, and he'd sworn to come back to them. Now he never could. If this bounty hunter didn't get him, another one would. Sooner or later. He wasn't bringing that kind of trouble to their doorstep.

_God, forgive me. Don't let it be true. _

"Are— are you sure?" He almost couldn't get the words out. "They know for certain it was me?"

"I don't know," Lansing admitted. "I know you fit the poster, but that's all I know. That bounty hunter ain't likely to be too particular once he gets ahold of you. We gotta get you away from here."

He wanted to spur his horse and disappear into those hills the way Lansing was urging him to do. Instead, he brought his horse to a stop.

"No. I won't do it. If it wasn't me, then I want to clear my name. If it was—" His throat tightened. "If it was, I want to know for certain. I want to know what I am. If that means hanging, I expect that's what I deserve."

"Don't be a fool!" Lansing spat. "Whatever you've done is done. Get out and start over, if you want, but don't stay around here and get your head blown off for nothing. I tell you, that bounty hunter—"

He turned to see what Lansing was looking at. There was a rider behind them on the road now. A rider on a pinto.

"Who is it?"

He already knew. It was that pinto, the one he'd seen again and again in the fragments of his memory. The rider had to be the man who shot him.

Lansing grabbed his horse's bridle, pulling him along as he spurred away. "Come on!"

The rider had spotted them, and now he kicked the pinto into a gallop.

Lansing turned them off onto a trail that led up and into the hills, and the rider followed after them. When they reached the crest of one of the hills, Lansing hurried them into a thick grove of trees.

"Get down!" Lansing grabbed hold of his shirt and hauled him to the ground. "Take cover and keep quiet."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Just stay still."

When he was only a silhouette atop the hill, the rider stopped, listening now, hesitant to come closer, hesitant to go down into he didn't know what. But he paused for only a second or two and then sank down into the shadow of the hillside only to pause again. For a moment, it seemed as though he would turn around and return to the safety of the road, but he didn't. He called out instead.

"Nick? Nick! Is that you?

Nick? The man the bartender had told him about had been looking for someone called Nick. Who was Nick? Another wanted man this bounty hunter was after?

"Nick!" the rider called again. "It's Jared."

"_And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years."_

Why did that name sound familiar? Why had it sounded familiar when Ma had read it out of the Book?

"What do you want?" he called back, staying out of sight. "Who are you?"

"Nick, it's me. Jared. I'm your—"

From close beside him, there was the crack of a pistol, and the rider toppled from his saddle.

"_And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died."_


	12. Part Twelve

**Part Twelve**

He tackled Lansing, knocking him to the hard ground and wrenching the still-smoking gun out of his hand. "What are you doing!"

Lansing lay there for a second or two, mouth open, too startled to move. Then he scrambled to his feet, eyes blazing.

"What do you mean what am I doing! That's the man who shot you! You remember his horse!"

"That doesn't mean you can just gun him down!"

"Was I supposed to let him finish what he started back at that camp!"

He stuffed Lansing's gun into his belt. "We could have stopped him! Tied him up, taken his horse and gun, anything, but not that! We could have taken him in to the sheriff!"

Lansing swore. "I told you, you don't want to do that!"

"Maybe I do!"

They glared at each other, chests heaving.

"All right. All right." Lansing braced his hands on his thighs and breathed deeply. "Okay, you're right. But it's done now. We'd better clear off before somebody comes along." He straightened up, smiling sheepishly. "Look, I'm sorry. I never did that to anybody before, but after what he did to you . . . Coop, I thought you were dead all this time. You're the only friend I got. I couldn't let it happen for real after that."

There was only pleading and regret in Lansing's face. Maybe he should be glad to have a friend who would go so far to protect him. Maybe he wasn't so sure he wanted a friend who'd shoot a man from ambush. Then again, maybe he was the type who wouldn't have any other kind of friend anyway.

"_I'm no murderer."_ He remembered that, strong and clear now, and it was his own voice that had said it. Why had he been riding with a man like Lansing?

"No matter what he was going to do," he told Lansing, "I needed to talk to him. I needed to ask him what I've done and whatever else he knows. Things you can't tell me."

He started off toward where the bounty hunter had fallen.

"Coop, don't be a fool!" Lansing shouted. "He could be playing possum. Waiting for you!"

"He could be dead!"

"At least give me back my gun!" Lansing started after him. "Let me cover you while you go see."

He didn't respond. His brain was whirling like a tornado had ahold of it. Jared. Nick and Jared. "_I'm your—" _I'm your what?

His gun still at the ready, he moved close enough to really see the man. He was lying there crumpled onto his side, still and silent, blood pooled around him. Dead. His face was mostly covered by the arm that was flung across it. On that arm was a black band.

"_Your father is dead."_

Something rooted him where he stood. He could see that pinto clearly. It was the one he remembered. What else?

The pinto. The campfire. The skillet full of beans. The tree. He'd been behind a tree.

"_My name's Barkley."_

"_Said his name was Barkley. Looking for somebody called Nick."_

"_It's me. Jared."_

Nick and Jared.

"_Nick, it's me. Jared. I'm your—"_

"Your what?" he growled at the man, wanting to scream the words to the high heavens. "Tell me. Who are you? Who am I"

"_I had a funeral to go to."_

"_Your father is dead."_

He reached a trembling hand toward that black band and then froze. Behind him was the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked.

"You can't do anything for him now."

Lansing.

"Where'd you get a gun?" he asked, not turning.

"Smart man keeps him an extra one in his saddle bags," Lansing said. "In the event of just this sort of emergency. Now you just turn right around and don't do anything stupid."

He held his gun out to the side. "I expect you'll be wanting this."

"You just keep it right where it is and turn around like I told you."

He did just as he'd been told.

"Now, you come on back where I am and don't be moving those hands."

Again he complied.

"All right," Lansing said. "Now, you keep that gun in your right hand held out just like it is and don't move it. And take your left and toss my gun over in those bushes there. I'll get it in a minute."

He tossed the gun.

Lansing nodded his approval. "Now here's how this is gonna work. You turn around so you're facing back the way you just come from. That's it." He moved so they were face to face. "Layin' in his blood like he is, I couldn't very well drag him anyplace else. This has got to look like the two of you shot each other and nobody else was to blame. Once the two of you boys are gone, there's nobody to say I was anywhere near where Tom Barkley was shot, and nobody to pay a bounty on me if there was."

"Barkley," he said on a breath.

"_My name's Barkley."_

His heart was running hard and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. "What is this, Lansing? What are you doing?"

Lansing gave him an almost-sympathetic smile. "I reckon none of this makes you much sense, not remembering like you do, but I don't have the time to explain it all to you." He laughed softly and all the sympathy in his smile vanished, leaving only cold humor. He jerked his head toward the dead man. "I guess he can tell you all about it once you catch up with him."

He was still holding his gun out to one side. Maybe if he was quick enough—

"Uh uh uh," Lansing scolded playfully. "Don't try it. No use getting yourself all worked up now. But you can close your eyes if it'd give you any comfort."

Not looking away from Lansing's face, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Lansing pointed his gun right at his heart.

_Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner._ It was all the prayer he had time for.

He lurched at the sound of the shot, but it was Lansing who fell.

The man who'd ridden in on the pinto was propped up on one elbow staring at him with piercing blue eyes, his gun in his hand. And instant later, the blue eyes slid shut, the gun dropped into the grass, and the man sank facedown onto the bloody ground beneath him.

"Mister!"

He made sure Lansing was dead, and then tossed his gun into the bushes with the first. Then he ran to the other man and flung his gun away, too. Maybe he had just saved him from Lansing, but things were too confusing right now. He didn't know who to believe. Who to trust.

"Mister?"

He stuffed his own gun into the back of his belt just in case. Then he knelt and turned the man onto his back. He was bleeding bad from high in his chest, far on the left side.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked, certain the man couldn't hear him. "Who are you?"

"_I'm your—"_

He tugged the man's blue bandana off his neck and stuffed it into the wound.

"Why'd you do it?"

After the gunfire, the pinto was a little skittish, but he managed to grab the canteen hanging off the saddle and brought it back to the wounded man.

"Mister?"

Kneeling again, he wet down his own bandana and wiped the man's face, bringing him around.

"Nick." The name was spoken on little more than a breath, and the man reached one blood-stained hand toward his face. "'s me. Jared. Nick . . . know me?"

Jared and Nick.

"Nick, 'm your . . ."

He grabbed the man by the upper arms, shaking him. "My what? Who are you? Who are you!"

The other man somehow managed to take hold of his sleeve, fixing him with those blue eyes he knew he should have known. "'m your brother."

Brother.

He could only stare at the man, lips trembling, his whole body numb. "Brother?"

He closed his eyes and saw it all as if he were flying through a long tunnel of images. He and this man had been setting fence posts. They'd found a body sprawled dead in a clearing. They'd carried that body home and then followed with a thousand other people to see it buried. They'd comforted— The woman in black. The little girl. In that house with the golden stairs. Together they had—

Jarrod and Nick.

Jarrod and Nick Barkley.

His eyes flew open.

"Jarrod."

Jarrod nodded shakily, and Nick pulled him up into his arms, crushing him close.

"Jarrod." Deep sobs tore through him. "Jarrod. Father's dead."

Jarrod hugged his arms around him as best he could and leaned his forehead against Nick's shoulder. "I know. 's all right. All right."

Jarrod's breath was coming harder and faster, and Nick knew he had to get him some help. He laid Jarrod back on the ground again and then tore off one of the too-short sleeves of poor Matty Hazlett's shirt to use for a bandage. Ma would understand.

"You're gonna be okay, Jarrod," Nick said with a shaky laugh. "Where we're headed, you'll get the best doctoring in the whole world."

Jarrod looked a little bewildered, but he nodded and closed his eyes.

Nick made quick work of binding him up. He'd lost too much blood already. There'd be time later for explanations. For mourning. For the grief that was as fresh for him now as it had been the day he'd left home.

"Can you ride?" Nick asked him once he'd gotten the bleeding stopped.

Jarrod looked pretty woozy. "Dunno."

Nick managed to get him up on the horse he'd ridden from the Hazlett place The same horse, he suddenly realized, that he'd ridden into Clinton's camp. "You hold on a minute, big brother. Just hold on."

Jarrod clung to the pommel, swaying only a little. Nick grabbed the two other horses, the pinto and the bay Clinton had ridden. The assassin himself would have to wait. Nick wasn't packing him out, even over a saddle like a piece of meat. The sheriff could deal with him.

Nick vaulted onto the horse's back behind Jarrod and headed as quickly as he could to the little ranch the lay not much farther down the road.

OOOOO

It was hardly two miles back to the Hazlett place. Nick saw Pa out working in the field behind the house and waved him in. Then he rode right up to the front porch.

"Ma! Ma!"

Jarrod looked at him blearily, but asked no questions.

Ma came hurrying out of the front door with that flushed look on her face that said she'd been baking. "Matty! What—" Her face changed when she saw his. Somehow she knew. "You remember."

He nodded, and there was sudden pain mixed with the relief he had felt just moments before.

She bit her lip. Then she drew a shaky breath and looked up at Jarrod. "You bring him into your room, Matty. I'll get Pa."

"I'm right here," Pa said, and he held onto Jarrod until Nick could dismount.

Between the two of them, they got Jarrod off the horse and into the bed that had for so long been Nick's.

Ma had spread the tarp over it again, and once Jarrod was situated, she began examining his wound.

"The bullet went through," she said after a few minutes. "I don't think you need to worry too much."

Jarrod murmured something and closed his eyes.

As Ma worked, Pa looked Nick over, both hands on his shoulders, worry in every line of his face. "What happened, son? Who is this?"

"He's Jarrod Barkley. My brother."

"You remember."

Nick nodded.

Pa smiled a little, but there was pain in that smile, the same pain that had come into Ma's eyes a little while before. "Then you know who you are. You know where you belong."

"Yeah."

Pa tried the smile again, this time a little more successfully. He understood. "You know who your folks are."

Nick nodded again, wanting to shout for joy, to laugh and cry and tell them how it felt to be whole once more, but he couldn't.

Jarrod was either asleep now or passed out, but Ma looked up from the bandaging she was doing.

"And you have a name."

Nick went over to her and gently kissed her cheek, wishing that could somehow be a comfort to her, knowing it wouldn't be.

"I'm Nick Barkley."

He wanted to tell her how much that meant to him, just knowing that name and knowing he belonged to it. He wanted to tell her and Pa both, but he couldn't. He couldn't because he knew they were already grieving again.


	13. Part Thirteen

**Part Thirteen**

Jarrod came around again when, after she finished bandaging him, Ma put a wet cloth to his face.

"You're all right, big brother," Nick said, understanding the relief that was in his brother's eyes when they lighted on a familiar face. He put his arm around Ma's shoulders. "The doc here says you're going to be just fine."

Jarrod gave her an uncertain smile and a nod.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Hazlett," Nick told him. "They took care of me after I was shot. I wouldn't have made it without them."

"Now, son," Pa began, but Nick shook his head.

"It's just the truth, Pa. Jarrod might as well know it."

"We were just trying to help," Ma said.

"I know, Ma. I know."

Jarrod looked a little puzzled. Could have been because of Nick calling these people Ma and Pa. Or maybe it was because of the heartbroken longing in Ma's eyes every time she looked at him. Well, Jarrod would be lying in this bed a while. There'd be plenty of time to explain everything to him.

Nick gave Jarrod's shoulder a careful pat. "You don't have to worry, big brother. You've got another 936 years."

Jarrod's forehead wrinkled. "What?"

"Didn't they teach you anything in Bible school? 'And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years,'" Nick quoted. "Seems to me you have a way to go yet before your time's up."

"Don't devil the poor boy," Ma scolded, and then she smoothed back Jarrod's hair. "You just lie back, honey. You're doing fine. I'll give you something to help the pain."

Nick couldn't hold back a grin as she gave Jarrod a spoonful of laudanum and then patted his face and started fussing again with his bandage.

Pa only shook his head. "It's just her way, son. No use fighting it."

Nick leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Wouldn't dream of fighting it, Pa. Not for a minute."

Jarrod was out pretty soon after that.

"He'll sleep a good long while now," Ma said, giving Nick's hand a pat. "Don't you worry about him."

"I know you'll take good care of him. Nobody I'd trust more." He took both of her hands. "That's why I feel like it's a good time for me and Pa to go into town."

"Town? But why?"

He brought her hands to his heart, pressing them close, knowing this was going to hurt. "I need to send a wire. To my mother."

Her eyes immediately filled with tears, but she blinked them back and nodded. "She's been worried over you, over both of you, I guess, for too long now. You'll want to tell her—" Despite her efforts, the tears spilled onto her cheeks. "You'll want to tell her you're coming home."

He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to him. "Yes, but not just yet, Ma. Jarrod will have to heal up some before we can leave. I won't take long in town. I want to get a few things while I'm there and maybe get an answer back."

She pulled away from him, forcing a smile as she patted his hand. "You go, honey. She needs to know she hasn't lost you or your poor brother here." She blotted her face with the handkerchief from her skirt pocket. "And you'd best hurry, if you're going to wait for a reply."

"I will."

He changed into another of Matty Hazlett's too-small shirts, one that had both sleeves in tact. Then he went to the chest at the foot of the bed and took out the money he had taken, it seemed an age ago, from his father's desk back home. He saw the black armband there, too, and after a moment's reflection, he put it on.

"Will you drive me in the wagon?" he asked when he realized Pa was watching him. "I guess I pretty much wore myself out earlier."

"You still haven't told us what happened today," Pa said warily. "Or how you came across your brother and why he got shot."

"I'll tell you about it while we're driving." Nick kissed Ma one more time. "And I'll make sure to tell you, too, after I get back."

He stood there a moment longer, listening to Jarrod's slow, even breathing, and then he and Pa went out to the barn. Pa didn't ask him why he put two horse blankets in the back of the wagon. He didn't protest when Nick asked him to pull off the road a couple of miles away from the house. Nick told him briefly about his father's death and his hunt for his father's killer. Then Nick told him about what had happened that morning, about Jarrod getting shot and about Jarrod killing Clinton. By then they had Clinton's body wrapped in the blankets and were almost back in Tin Cup.

"I'll see to things with the sheriff," Pa said, nodding toward the back of the wagon. "He's probably gonna want to hear your side of it, but you'd best get that wire sent first if you hope to get any answer back before the office closes this afternoon."

"Yeah. Somebody'd have to get it out to the ranch and the answer back pretty quick."

Pa dropped Nick off at the telegraph office and then drove on to the sheriff's. Nick gave the telegraph operator a generous tip so he would send his wire right away.

**MRS VICTORIA BARKLEY**

**BARKLEY RANCH**

**STOCKTON CAL**

**URGENT DELIVERY WAIT FOR REPLY**

**AM WELL**

**MISSING YOU AND AUDRA**

**LOVE TO BOTH**

**JARROD HURT NOT SERIOUS**

**COMING HOME SOONEST POSSIBLE**

**WIRE TIN CUP NEV CARE HAZLETT RANCH**

**NICK**

He waited for confirmation of receipt from Stockton and then walked toward the sheriff's office. Halfway there, he passed the saloon. The bartender was out front, sweeping the boardwalk.

"Well now, young fella, I didn't expect to see you back so soon. It was the oddest thing, but that man I told you about, the one who'd been here a while back, he was in here earlier. He took out after you, if I'm not mistaken. Did you ever see him?"

"I did."

The bartender narrowed his eyes. "You look different, boy, and no mistake. Ah, I know it now. You've lost that wary, haunted look in your eyes. You've remembered your name, am I right?"

Nick couldn't hold back a grin.

"And don't tell me it's Nick Barkley."

"It is."

"For the love of all that's holy. And me practically whispering the name right into your blessed ear only this morning."

"You sent my brother the right way," Nick told him as he handed him a twenty dollar bill. "That was enough."

"No, now, I can't take a reward for a mere moment of kindness to the helpless. I thank you, but no."

"I'm not helpless now, and you were good to me when I was. Please."

"Well, since you ask so kindly." The bartender winked and tucked the bill into the pocket of his flowered waistcoat. "You come from a generous and open-handed people, Mr. Barkley, and may it all come back to you before many days."

Pa's wagon was in front of the undertaker's. Pa and the sheriff were both there talking. The wagon itself was empty.

"I already told him what you told me," Pa said with a glance toward the lawman.

The sheriff was a stolid looking man in his late thirties who looked at Nick speculatively and then nodded toward his black armband. "Your pa was Tom Barkley?"

"He was," Nick said. "My brother, Jarrod, is over at the Hazlett place now. Clinton shot him this morning."

"He all right?"

"Will be. You'll have to come out there if you need to talk to him."

"I'll do that. I'll have to have the both of you make statements about what happened earlier today. Doesn't seem there's much else needs doing."

"You come by anytime, sheriff," Pa said. "Mrs. Hazlett will be happy to make you coffee or supper if you'd like."

"I'll do that, Mr. Hazlett. Proud to. Now I'd better go make arrangements with Mr. Purdy here." The sheriff glanced toward the undertaker's parlor. "There's only so much the town'll pay for."

"Get your wire sent, son?" Pa asked once the sheriff had gone inside.

"Yeah. I thought maybe while we wait for a reply we could go over to the general store. There are some things I'd like to get."

Pa turned the wagon around and pulled it up across the street and a few buildings down. Dr. Whitman was coming out of the store when Nick and Pa were going in.

"Dr. Whitman," Nick said. "I was about to come see you."

The doctor immediately started looking him over. "What's the matter, son? You're not having any troubles are you?"

"No, not me. My brother. He was shot this morning."

"Shot?"

"Ma doesn't think it's serious, but I'd sure like it if you come by and check on him."

The doctor looked at Pa dubiously. "Another 'accident'? And I didn't know you had two sons."

Pa shifted on his feet. "We, uh, have some explaining to do, Dr. Whitman. Best not do it standing out on the street. But you come by. Mrs. Hazlett would be glad to see you."

"I'd be glad to know what's going on."

"You will." Nick pressed a twenty dollar bill into his hand. "And that ought to satisfy your curiosity until we get a chance to talk."

"As you say." The doctor put the money in his pants pocket. "I'll be by when I can."

Once they were inside the store, Pa put one hand on Nick's arm.

"That money you're tossing around like cigarette papers—"

"It's mine," Nick assured him. "Or, at least, it's my family's. I brought it with me from home. I promise."

Pa nodded, his face relaxing, but then his calm changed to concern and then outright alarm when Nick began buying things right and left. The first thing he bought was food, steak in particular, and sugar and canned peaches. He added flour and eggs just in case Ma was short on them. He wanted Jarrod to have some of that peach pie before they went home.

After laying in a whole month's worth of staples, he turned to the dry goods. He bought himself and Jarrod each new shirts and new underclothes. He bought Ma yard goods, a sweet, sunny blue and yellow floral print that would just suit her, and a frivolous hat with feathers and fake cherries and a little stuffed bird perched on top. He made Pa sit still long enough to be fitted with new boots and a hat. Pa protested all of that, his hat and boots the most, but he really kicked when, after all those purchases were loaded onto the wagon, Nick paid what the Hazletts had owing on account there at the store and at the feed store and at the blacksmith's and bought him a new harness, too.

"This is too much, son. I can't let you. Ma'll kill me, and your own ma—"

"Mother will kill _me_ if I don't. Do you think my life is worth less than all this?"

"No," Pa said, his voice suddenly husky. "But that's not why—"

"I know, Pa. And that's why I need to do this for you."

Pa didn't argue anymore.

By the time they were ready to leave town, the man from the telegraph office ran over to them waving a yellow slip of paper.

"Got your answer, mister. Got it right here."

Nick gave him a dollar bill in exchange for the message.

Pa shook his head. "You're spoiling this whole town rotten, son, passing out money like lemon drops." He smiled then and gave Nick's shoulders a squeeze. "You go on, boy. I know you're happy. Ma and I, we're happy for you. You know we are."

The sudden tightness in Nick's throat made it almost impossible for him to breathe. "Pa, I wish there was some way . . ."

He broke off there, not knowing what to say.

"You have to go home to your folks son."

Nick dropped his head, seeing nothing but that slip of yellow paper crumpled in his hand, knowing his vision was too blurred now for him to be able to read it. "I know. I just don't want to hurt— After everything you've done— Ma—"

Pa squeezed him closer. "Ma will look back and see that this, all of it, was a good thing, even with the hurt. She looked after you and saw you get well and strong again. She loved you like she loved our boy, and you loved her back just the same. When we lost Matty the way we did, so sudden and so cruel, she didn't much have time to take it all in, to know if she'd done right by him, if she'd done enough, quick enough or long enough or good enough. Now I think she knows that she did all that could have been done, for him and for you. She got the second chance she'd prayed for, and this time our boy lived. It was needful to her, son." His voice quavered. "And to me."

They sat there in the wagon for a long moment, and then Pa started the horses back toward home. "You'd best read your telegram."

Nick dashed his sleeve across his eyes and smoothed out the yellow paper.

**MR NICK BARKLEY**

**CARE OF HAZLETT RANCH**

**TIN CUP NEV**

**THANK GOD**

**COME HOME QUICKEST ROUTE**

**ALL OUR LOVE**

**MOTHER**


	14. Part Fourteen

**Part Fourteen**

Nick and Jarrod spent two more days with the Hazletts. Dr. Whitman advised at least three additional days, but when Jarrod promised to go in a buggy rather than ride and that only as far as the depot down in Deer Run where, from there, they could take the train to Stockton, the doctor relented.

Nick had put the telegram in his shirt pocket, and he kept it there, the words burning into him more and more the longer he stayed. _ALL OUR LOVE. MOTHER. _Love. Not reproach. How he missed her, missed her in the deep, once-forgotten places in his heart that now called to him.

He'd caused her grief all this long while. _"You don't have to break my heart any more than it's already been broken,"_she had said when she'd begged him to promise her he wouldn't go after Clinton, but he hadn't given her that promise. Instead, he had gone, heaping more grief on what she already carried when Father had been killed and piling on a hefty helping of fear and worry to complement it. He'd taken Jarrod from her, too, right when she'd needed him most, and had almost gotten him killed as well. He had to get home now, to do what he could to comfort her and make amends. There was also little Audra. She'd lost her father and both brothers all at once. He had to make it right with her, too. And yet . . .

"Ready to go, Nick?"

Jarrod eyed him narrowly. They both knew Ma and Pa were in the front room waiting for them. They both knew they'd miss the train west if they didn't leave in the next little while. Nick had told his brother everything that had happened while he hadn't known who he was. He'd told Jarrod what the Hazletts had done for him and what they'd come to mean to him. And what he hadn't said, he knew his brother had read in his eyes and in his voice. He'd never been any good at hiding what he was feeling. They both knew the goodbyes wouldn't come easy.

"Nick?" Jarrod prompted.

Nick nodded, not looking at him. "Yeah."

Jarrod handed him his hat, the one Father had given him, the one Jarrod had salvaged from Clinton's campsite. It was battered and crushed and weatherbeaten, but Nick didn't want another one. Not yet. He put it on. Then he looked at Jarrod who was standing there a little pale, his arm and shoulder bound up securely, those blue eyes of his full of understanding. He wouldn't move until Nick was ready.

Nick was ready. He had to be.

He opened the bedroom door.

They were sitting at the table, Ma with her hands clasped in front of her, her mending untouched at her elbow, and Pa with his chair pulled close to hers and his arm around her. He broke off whatever he'd been murmuring against her cheek, and they both looked up. Nick took a few steps closer to them and then stopped and looked back at Jarrod. He couldn't do this.

Jarrod squeezed his shoulder and then took off his hat. "Nick and I have got to get going if we're going to make the train," he said gently. "Thank you both for looking after me and especially for everything you did for Nick." He took Ma's hand. "We can never repay you, Mrs. Hazlett."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "You take care going home."

He nodded and offered his hand to Pa. "Mr. Hazlett, sir."

Pa shook with him. "You know, I could drive you both to Deer Run and then bring the buggy back to the livery in Tin Cup. Wouldn't take long."

Nick gave his brother a look that said he ought to refuse. There was no need to prolong this. If Pa went, Ma would want to go, too, and he couldn't bear the thought have having another goodbye at the train. And if she stayed home, she'd be here alone until Pa got back. That would be even worse.

"Thank you," Jarrod said smoothly, "but we'll arrange someone to return it." He gave Nick's arm a pat. "I'll be outside."

When the front door closed behind him, Nick bit back the urge to call him back and the stronger urge to simply run after him. It was time. He took off the hat he had just put on and held it in both hands.

"Ma?"

That one word tore a deep sob from her, bringing with it a flood of tears.

"Ma."

He let the hat fall to the floor and dropped to his knees beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist as she pressed him to her heart, pressed her cheek against his hair.

"Don't leave me, Matty. Don't go. Please, don't go."

"I'm sorry, Ma. I'm sorry." He was sobbing now, too, clinging to her like a child as she gently rocked him. "I love you. I'll never forget you."

"I love you, too, honey." She touched light kisses to his forehead, to his hair, to his temple. "More than I know how to say. Oh, Matty. Matty."

He held her there, tight as he could, holding on as she wept, soothing and comforting until her sobs finally quieted. She drew a shuddering breath and turned his face up to her so she could pat the tears away with her soft fingers. She smiled unsteadily, and somehow he smiled back.

"You go now, honey. You don't want to miss your train. Your poor ma has got to be aching for you by now."

"All right."

He got to his feet and wiped his face with the sleeve of his new shirt. Pa had been standing by her side all along, and now Nick looked into his sorrow-filled eyes and felt a whole new wave of grief wash over him.

"Pa, I—"

Pa wrapped him in a hug, one that was so like Father's, strong and warm and sure.

"Pa, I—" Nick grabbed two handfuls of the laundry-soap-smelling shirt and buried his face in it. "Pa—"

His voice broke, and he couldn't manage anything more. Pa just held him there, and then he cupped Nick's face in both hands.

"You go on, boy," his said, a tell-tale thickness in his voice. "It's time and past. Ma and me'll be just fine."

Nick ducked his head against him, holding on one last time. "Love you, Pa."

Ma stood and put her arms around them both. Then she tucked her sodden handkerchief into his hand.

"Do like your pa says," she said, somehow smiling as she kissed his cheek. "Let us know how you're doing now and again."

He could only nod, and with that little lace-trimmed bit of linen clutched in his hand, he went out to the buggy.

OOOOO

Nick and Jarrod had decided between them that they didn't want Mother and Audra waiting for them at the station in Stockton, so they had sent a wire giving only the vaguest information, just saying they were headed home and would see them at the ranch very soon.

"Mother's gonna skin me alive," Nick said as they pulled out of the station in Deer Run. "I'd rather that not be publicly witnessed."

Jarrod had only smiled and settled himself as comfortably as possible in his seat, using his saddlebags to brace his wounded shoulder. "I think she'll just be glad to get you home again. I'm the one she's likely to skin out since I didn't stay a couple more days in Tin Cup to rest up."

As it happened, Silas was the first to see the rented buggy pull into the drive in front of the house. A smile lit his face and he dropped his garden shears and the basket of roses that had been over his arm.

"Mr. Nick! Mr. Jarrod!" He hurried down the front steps. "Miz Barkley! Miss Audra! They home! They both home! Mr. Nick!"

He reached them just as Nick was helping Jarrod out of the buggy.

"Silas." Nick patted his thin shoulder, feeling suddenly awkward. "Good to see you."

Silas clutched his arm with both hands, joy and tears in his dark eyes. "Oh, bless the Lord, Mr. Nick! You and Mr. Jarrod home at last."

Home.

Not trusting his voice, Nick gave the old man's shoulder a squeeze. Then there was a shriek and he turned just in time to catch an armload of little sister.

"You're home! You're home!" Audra planted several quick kisses on his nose and cheeks and then flung herself toward Jarrod.

Nick held her back. "Easy there now, squirt. Jarrod's about as strong as a new kitten right now."

"You'd best come lie down, Mr. Jarrod."

Silas tried to take Jarrod's arm, but Jarrod wouldn't hear of it. "I'm all right, Silas. I would like to sit down and have some coffee, if you have some made."

"I'll get it right away. You come on inside."

Audra grabbed Nick's hand and took careful hold of Jarrod's. "Where have you both been all this time? We were so worried, and Mother said—"

"We'll talk about all that inside, Audra."

Mother was standing in the doorway, her skin like tinted porcelain against the deep black of her dress and her hair pure silver. She looked at Nick and Jarrod, not saying anything more, but reaching her hands out to both of them so she could draw them into the house. Audra escorted Jarrod to his usual chair by the parlor fireplace.

Mother caressed his face. "How are you, Jarrod? You feel a little warm. Do we need to have Dr. Merar out to see you? Silas, please serve us coffee in here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Silas allowed himself another look at Nick and Jarrod and then slipped quietly away.

"I'm all right, Mother." Jarrod brought Mother's hand to his lips. "Just a bit tired."

"I'll go turn your bed down," Audra said, and she dashed up the stairs before anyone could respond.

Jarrod smiled after her. "I've missed that."

"She's missed you." Mother looked at Nick still standing before her. "Both of you."

Nick wet his dry lips. "Mother—"

She shushed him and put her hand up to his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes for the longest while. Somehow he managed to not look away, though he was sure all she saw in him was guilt and shame and remorse. Finally unable to stand it anymore, he sobbed and ducked his head.

"Mother, I'm so sorry. I know— Everything I did— Mother—"

She pulled him into her arms, shushing him again, weeping for him and with him, and he knew all the apologies and explanations could wait for another time. All that mattered now was the warmth of her embrace and the gentle caress of her voice.

"You're home, sweetheart. You're home."

OOOOO

_August 10, 1870_

_Barkley Ranch_

_Stockton, California_

_Dear Ma and Pa,_

_I guess you got my wire telling you that Jarrod and I made it home all right. Thanks to your good doctoring, Ma, Jarrod's doing just fine. Our town doctor couldn't even find anything to complain about when he looked him over. Mother and Audra were happy to see us, and so was Silas, and they weren't too mad at me after I told them everything that happened after I left._

_I've been thinking since I got back, trying to figure out what to do. I decided to buy a ranch. It's just a small one, only a short ride from here. It's a pretty little place, all fixed up nice, with good grass and water, Pa, and not too far from town. The furniture's all new and so's the paint, so I hope you'll make me very happy and come live in it. It's all paid for and ready to be signed over to you, so there's nothing for you to do but sell your place and move in so I can come see you all the time. Will you? Ma, I promised Silas you'd tell him how you make your peach pie._

_The way I see it, I got really spoiled when you took care of me. I'd never been an only child before, and I kinda got to liking it. I've been missing you both something fierce since I left you, and maybe you miss me, too. Mother and Audra would sure like to meet you. I expect Mother will just about drown you with thanks for all you did, though maybe you should be thanking her for finally taking me off your hands._

_Please come. I love you both. _

And he signed it Matty.

THE END


End file.
